


An Accidental Love Story

by Bibliotecaria_D



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2013-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:25:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Cliffjumper tries to figure out what everyone else already knows, and Mirage is singularly unhelpful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**[* * * * *]**

**Title:** An Accidental Love Story, Pt. 1  
 **Artist:** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[**shibara_ffnet**](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/) / Ao3 Shibara  
 **Warnings:** Confusion, invisibility, domination, bodily harm, and Vikings.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1, _“A Taste for Security”_ spin-off  
 **Characters:** Cliffjumper, Red Alert, Mirage  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors (or scenery), nor does it make a profit from the play. Artist and author did not actually try to kill each other.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Artist vs Author deathmatch challenge gone wrong. Because it started with a picture, and artists should know better than to challenge authors who are easily provoked…

 

**[* * * * *]**

**Pt. 1: An Accidental Love Story**  
(In which Captain Obvious pays a visit to Cliffjumper.)  
 _’To the Oblivious-Mobile, Captain Obvious!’_

 

Earth was an okay place for a dirtball. Cliffjumper didn’t mind it. It wasn’t home, of course, but it wasn’t bad as far as crash pads went. Like the humans said, “Any port in a storm.”

Like a human seeking shelter somewhere during a storm, however, Cliffjumper knew better than to piss off the natives. That was actually pretty easy, because the humans were forgiving little creatures with an innate ability to give as good as they got. Gears had been the Grand Champion of complaining about everyone and everything right up until Carly introduced the Autobots to her grandmother. Now, not only did Gears take second place, but the joke around the _Ark_ was that he was trying to shore up his gearstick enough to ask her out on a date. Not because he was necessarily interested in the old lady romantically, but because he wanted to take notes on how she turned him down. Carly had been appalled at first, either at her grandma’s manners or Gears’ stricken expression, but now she led the herd in teasing him.

So, yeah, Cliffjumper didn’t feel like the Autobots were doing a half-bad job getting along with the locals. Getting along with each other was slightly more difficult.

Common wisdom held not to foster hostility between crew members. Being shut into a ship with people a mech didn’t get on with was bad enough without making the situation worse by starting fights. Cliffjumper had found those words of wisdom to be somewhat difficult to remember.

It hadn’t been so bad when the _Ark_ launched, because it was supposed to be a relatively short mission. Mission plan: find a new energon source and bring the energon back to Cybertron. Cliffjumper was supposed to help guard the work and fill in the work schedule when needed. He wasn’t supposed to be stuck in the same base for years with this crew. Saints would lose patience, much less Cliffjumper!

He got that he was no peach himself. He, uh, jumped to conclusions. He…sometimes saw traitors where there were none, based off of his quick decisions. That made it hard to live with him. He got that, really, he did, even before Jazz had pulled him aside for a one-on-one debriefing on just how much all the supposed ‘traitors’ in the ranks were contributing.

He’d been trying to ‘think first, act later’ more. Primus knew, he’d been trying. He didn’t give the Aerialbots the stink-optic anymore, which didn’t stop him from shouting abuse at them on the battlefield but was kind of a step in the right direction. Skyfire seemed to have forgiven him for all the muttered comments about hooking up with Starscream and flittering off back to the Decepticons. The Dinobots probably hadn’t understood half his accusations in the first place, but Grimlock stopped sharpening his sword whenever Cliffjumper walked into the common room. That was an improvement. Fearing for his life because of giant dumb dinosaur death machines had been less than pleasant.

Cliffjumper didn’t stop picking fights with Sunstreaker, but come on. It was like the unofficial base sport among the Minibots: who could provoke the most ill-tempered mech in the Autobots and get away without dismemberment? Rumor had it that Cosmo had taken the trophy on that one by getting his set of nicks and dings via means other than a fight, but he apparently didn’t kiss and tell. The little space-farer only blinked innocently and then looked smug when he thought the others weren’t looking. Sunstreaker just looked inscrutable. Really shiny, intimidating, hotter than melted slag, and inscrutable.

…fraggit.

Not that Cliffjumper was drooling _too_ much over the details. He’d gotten some, uh, ‘detailing’ himself after mending fences with Mirage. It hadn’t really gone anywhere, but that was to be expected. Just because he’d -- grudgingly -- apologized for accusing Mirage of being a traitor didn’t make the noblemech any less of a stuck-up elitist with pomp and circumstance parading up his tailpipe on a daily basis. Cliffjumper had been somewhat surprised that they’d gotten as far as making out in the hallway, to be honest. Mirage came off as too much of a snob for a good time.

Sure, he could be fun to hang out with. Mech had a sneaky sense of humor almost as stealthy as that slagging invisibility cloak of his. Cliffjumper could admit that, and even enjoy it. He’d been getting along better with the noblemech these days. They’d been hanging more often because it seemed like their off-shifts were coinciding more lately. A lot more, actually.

It was a little weird how much time they were spending together, when Cliffjumper stopped to think about it. There were the scutwork shifts they somehow pulled on Tuesdays, spending ten hours at a time cleaning and rewiring and bemoaning how grubby Earth was. It made the post-shift wipe-down in the washracks easier having a buddy along to help, especially one so liberal with the aftercare polish, but Cliffjumper was still trying to figure out what he’d done wrong to get moved from his previous slot. Prowl had yanked him away from being Hoist and Grapple’s assistant, which was ridiculous because he had been practically _nice_ to them lately, what with trying not to snipe at them about the whole ‘Let’s trust the Constructicons and build something against Optimus Prime’s express orders!’ fiasco.

Although it wasn’t just Tuesday’s shift schedule that had been borked around, so maybe it hadn’t been the red Minibot’s fault. Cliffjumper and Mirage had short-range patrols together four times a week now, which was kind of strange because Bumblebee had been Cliffjumper’s partner for that until Jazz decided to pull the yellow Minibot to another route all of a sudden. Oh, and they were doing cross-country patrols to New York City twice a month, now. Cliffjumper was fairly sure Mirage wasn’t supposed to do those because he and Wheeljack’s altmodes had issues with their tires and axles wearing out on long roadtrips. He’d asked the blue spy what officer he’d annoyed to get condemned to obeying the speed limit all the way across the USA, but Mirage had only smiled wanly and said something about pulling in some favors.

Must have been Jazz. Only Jazz would ride someone’s aft over pulling in a few favors. Ratchet had to be in on it, too, because the medic was the one who always had to fix the damage. Mirage never said anything, but Cliffjumper always took the return trip slow because he knew the blue Autobot limped pretty bad by the time they got back to the West coast. Stupid spy never _said_ anything, though. Cliffjumper kind of liked the pride thing, but it seemed more of a stupidity thing from his perspective.

Anyway, they were spending a lot of time together, and…huh. Most of it was off-shift, despite the sudden rash of swaps and mysterious replacements on the schedule. How did that keep happening? It wasn’t like the red Minibot was seeking out the spy to sit next to the common room. Well, not more than two or three times a week. And he definitely hadn’t been the one to make Sideswipe change seats on movie night. He’d just noticed one night that Mirage was suddenly his couch buddy instead and never gotten around to asking how exactly that had happened.

Eh, it wasn’t worth worrying about. Cliffjumper had to admit Mirage made a good pal. They might have ventured into more, but Mirage had cooled off like a block of ice down the struts the second the red Minibot had tried to push things past some recreational groping. Suddenly, the noblemech had gone all formal and stilted, always retrieving Cliffjumper’s energon ration and refusing to let him return the gesture, or turning up outside his quarters right before lights-out to say scrap like, “Might I inquire how your day has gone?”

He’d been unnerved at first, then irritated. It was just _weird_. He didn’t think Mirage was mocking him, because the overly-polite questions and bizarre mannerisms just didn’t match up with the mech who appeared next to him in the common room to drolly comment on the latest human video playing on the big screen. That still didn’t make any more sense of what the spy was _doing_ , however.

Cliffjumper had vowed not to let it get to him after he spotted Jazz and Hound smirking that one time. He was trying to avoid jumping to erroneous conclusions these days, but he’d decided this had to be some strange Special Operations friendship hazing ritual.

SpecOps could go chase a Seeker. Cliffjumper wasn’t that easy to rile up, not anymore. He was perfectly capable of long-term planning and reaching goals, and he was determined to stop lashing out at the other Autobots. They had to work together, and who knew how long they’d be stuck on Earth at this rate? He had to get along with Grapple and Skyfire and the Primus-fragged Aerialbots and, yes, okay, _Mirage_.

Cliffjumper had other plans, too. The Autobots had changed here on Earth, and sometimes for the better. Working this closely with the _Ark_ crew had confirmed them all as trustworthy (for the most part), and Cliffjumper had ended up taking a second look at some mechs. And then a third and fourth look, too, depending on the mech.

Like Red Alert. What with the Security Director’s new sensor suite, everybody had been looking at him a little different, but none more so than Cliffjumper. He’d been keeping track. Red Alert had a schedule, of a sort, and a careful observer -- well, still couldn’t predict it, because no mech got to be Security Director by being _predictable_ , but at least could get a vague idea of when his slot on the schedule would come up. Maybe. Not really. Cliffjumper over-prepared for everything, anyway, so just knowing he was somewhere on the schedule gave him a planning point.

And he had a plan, alright.

The best plans to get laid of mechs and Minibots often go wrong, but Cliffjumper was determined to prove that adage incorrect. He hadn’t been able to _think_ straight since the Vikingcon versus Saxonbot showdown in the common room, and now his systems ran hot whenever a history documentary came up on TV. Just…Primus surfing a longboat, Red Alert had ‘verified’ Mirage’s identity so hard he could have just reformatted the spy into a bicycle and ridden him home.

As Warpath had put it, “Yow! Pow! Blammo!”

Cliffjumper hadn’t been able to stop staring. He hadn’t wanted to. He’d stared at Mirage the rest of the night, watching the blue Autobot sit among the Saxonbots wearing a dazed little smile. For days afterward, Cliffjumper had slipped into vivid fantasies of that kiss every time he saw the spy. All he could imagine was a hand guiding Mirage’s helm, another hand clamped lower down and twice as possessive, fierce aggression nearly forcing Mirage down to his knees as the blue mech gasped and tried not to whimper under the pressure. Wow.

Mirage had been oddly reluctant to talk about it, which was a shame. Cliffjumper wanted details of the Cosmo/Sunstreaker incident, but he _burned_ for details of that kiss. The few times it’d been brought up since then, the noblemech had thrown a quick look at Cliffjumper and changed the subject as if embarrassed. Bluestreak could get anyone talking, however, and Mirage had admitted in a near-mumble that getting grabbed and taken like that was how he liked it. Then he’d given Cliffjumper an almost flustered look and excused himself from the conversation.

The red Minibot could understand. That kiss had been smoking hot, but kind of public. Mirage was usually a reserved kind of Autobot. Getting thrown down on the common room couch and kissed senseless would probably do him some good, but the blue mech wasn’t really the type to admit that’s how he wanted it.

Could be fun. Lots of fun. Mmm, doing it Vikingbot-style: raiding and conquering the Saxonbots. Cliffjumper couldn’t wait to give it a try himself, but Red Alert wasn’t really the throw-downable-est of Autobot officers. That’s was okay. Cliffjumper still wanted some of that fantastic kiss for himself, and luckily, Red Alert was not averse to some in-depth identity verification. A mech just had to be prepared when the schedule came around to his turn.

Which Cliffjumper was, and frag _yes_ it was going to be great.

Red Alert’s optics had that sleepy look that meant his systems were still slowly ticking up toward fully online when he confronted the red Minibot in the corridor, and Cliffjumper grinned. He let the taller mech catch him and go into full clingwrap-mode, wrapping around him. There were benefits to being a Minibot, and taking a larger mech as a lover certainly ranked up in the Top 5. Bulkier builds were a bit harder to toss around like Cliffjumper preferred, but he wasn’t one to hold that against a mech. Not everybody could have Mirage’s trim frametype.

“Hey there, Red Alert,” the Minibot crooned as he gently pulled on the taller mech’s shoulder. “Can you stand up for me? That’s a good boy…”

The Security Director didn’t object to being mech-handled off his chosen perch. So long as there was constant contact somewhere, his field-sensors were happy. Cliffjumper kept one hand on the taller mech’s shoulder and _reached_ with his EM field. Tired contentment and a recognition of _’Identify confirmed: Autobot Cliffjumper. Mission accomplished.’_ tickled his palm. The red Minibot pushed back with a sizzle of excess charge through his arm, lighting his field up with something more…risqué.

It was the circuit-level equivalent of a waggled optic ridge and, “Interested?”

Red Alert shivered, optics dimming to deep cobalt even as his systems purred steadily toward online. _’Yes.’_

Awwww yeah.

Cliffjumper’s grin widened into a full smile, and he firmly grasped the top edge of the Security Director’s chest plate to hold him in place when Red Alert would have vacuum-sealed himself against the Minibot again. That wasn’t what Cliffjumper wanted. Red Alert tended to be overly controlling, but the smaller Autobot wanted to be in charge, here.

He clearly remembered black fingers holding a blue helm still; his other hand reached out and stroked down the side of Red Alert’s face. It didn’t look quite right, didn’t feel the same as the excited liquid rush he got imagining this same mech kissing Mirage’s bolts loose, but that was okay. He was getting hot just remembering it, anyway. Of course it wasn’t as good as his imagination at the moment! Red Alert was still perking up toward fully aware. Part of the officer’s attention remained locked into meshing with Cliffjumper’s field, running the compulsive security checks that were a frag and a half more fun these days. Cliffjumper liked having his lover’s full attention. He could be patient.

The shivering picked up as the red Minibot slowly drew Red Alert closer, allowing their fields to spark off each other and mesh all the way down their bodies. The hand not holding onto the taller mech traced random patterns down Red Alert’s neck cables, plucking them like guitar strings for the jerking shudders it caused. The fingers slid upward, seeking more sensitive areas to caress. He wouldn’t be happy until Red Alert melted into a mewling puddle. That was the kind of control Cliffjumper liked, and probably the reason he’d _unf_ ed so hard watching Red Alert kiss Mirage’s knees to rubber. Cliffjumper wasn’t just proficient in operating _guns_ , after all.

As Perceptor had put it, “You possess a musician’s hands, capable of playing any instrument of your choosing. It is most unfortunate war has precipitously cut short a potential maestro. The chording capabilities inherent in your knuckle-joint flexibility rival that of Jazz, but yet you say you have never touched an instrument.”

“Not a musical one, anyway.” Cliffjumper had always found Perceptor’s ability to minutely examine every single part of his body to be sexy. There was nothing like a mech who saw a berthmate on the molecular level.

The innuendo in the red Minibot’s voice had caught the scientist’s interest. “Your meaning?”

“I mean I can play all kinds of chords.” Insert optic ridge waggle and _’Interested?’_ here. “C’mere and I’ll show you.”

He’d then proceeded make Perceptor gasp out the entire score to a human popsong, one stifled cry at a time, just by touching the microscope in the right places. Cliffjumper had a knack for instruments, alright. And right now, he had an instrument named Red Alert to play with.

“Too bad I’d never get you to agree to just fragging right here,” Cliffjumper said, somewhere between wistful and serious. “Don’t think you’re that type.” Too bad, because the red Minibot had been getting seriously revved lately over the idea. Just the thought of walking up, grabbing what he wanted, and having his way right then and there sent bolts of lust from sensor projections to bumpers. The more spectators the better. Cliffjumper was an impulsive mech, and sometimes going with an impulse was a really good thing.

Doing just this much out in the hallway right now was spinning his tires, in fact. He could almost _feel_ optics on them, but there was nobody around when he glanced over his shoulder. Still, better to play it safe. The heat in the area was ramping higher the longer he played with Red Alert’s neck cable’s, and he was taking both of them off to Ratchet for a maintenance check as soon as they were finished. Their vent fans were unnaturally loud!

That would be later, however, and this was now. He was sure the Security Director wouldn’t want to spontaneously overload right there in the hall from some fondling, so he slid his hand back up to Red Alert’s face. He stroked his fingers down the sensitive facial seams. “You awake enough to be thrown over my shoulder and carried off to a berth?” Cliffjumper joked, and he could have _sworn_ the temperature in the hallway spiked like someone had just opened the door to a smelter.

Huh. Maybe Red Alert had a hidden Saxonbot side. Who knew?

Pleasure-dimmed optics spied his thumb passing by, and the Security Director turned his head fractionally to lick at it.

\-- except tongue and finger never connected. There was a _tunk_ of metal-on-metal as the Security Director took a startled step back, and Cliffjumper, well, jumped. There was a sudden, spitzing wall of electromagnetic field between them, positively fizzling with frustrated arousal against Cliffjumper’s hand. Red Alert’s optics went wide and totally alert, systems jumping to ready-status, and Cliffjumper froze in shock.

The two Autobots stared in utter surprise at each other, and it wasn’t because they didn’t recognize the EM field’s signature. It was because they _did_.

Red Alert relaxed just as suddenly as he’d tensed. Much to the red Minibot’s confusion, a pleased smile crossed his face. He leaned to the side just a bit and ventured a hand out to pat Cliffjumper on the head. “That’s a good boy,” he parroted cheerfully before turning and sauntering away.

Leaving Cliffjumper with his hands still outstretched, grasping nothing. “Wh…what just..?”

Nothing whispered an EM field against his palms, and then nothing gradually became something -- or rather some _one_ \-- and Cliffjumper had been trying so slagging hard here on Earth not to jump to anymore conclusions, but the crackling charge pushing into his hands was really making that difficult. “I was **this close** to getting laid,” he said, sounding befuddled even to his own audios as Mirage faded into existence in his hands. “Do you have any idea how long I’d been planning that?!”

“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been planning **this**?” Mirage said, and Cliffjumper noticed just where his hands were, and frag him sideways with a RotorRooter if he even needed his imagination to recreate that wonderful, recharge-haunting moment in the common room. Because his hands were just perfect holding onto blue instead of black helm armor, and that wide-opticked look of vulnerable hope was hitting all the right Vikingbot cues to divide and conquer, and -- and -- Cliffjumper was having trouble with impulse control right now. Or was he jumping to conclusions again?

The blue noblemech pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and gave the smaller red Autobot the world’s most uncertain smile. “I, ah, I didn’t mean to impose,” he said softly, although he clearly, clearly had, and that made no sense whatsoever. Why the frag would the mech be lurking about in the halls watching Cliffjumper, then say that?!

It suddenly struck Cliffjumper that Mirage’s bizarre, stiff behaviorisms were _manners_. Formal, elite, Tower mech _manners_ that’d gotten switched on because the Autobots could take the noblemech out of the Towers but nothing could take the Towers out of the noblemech. He’d been pulling this slag for months now, all beginning with…oh. Ooooh.

Cliffjumper looked at his hand. He looked at the mech whose cool stare was wholly off-set by the snapping fire of his EM field and the oddly desperate look in his optics. Mirage looked like a starving mech looking through a window at the finest highgrade. It was kind of hard _not_ to jump straight to a conclusion based on that, but after careful consideration (at least two seconds’ worth), the conclusion Cliffjumper came to involved following Red Alert’s sterling example and attempting to kiss the blue noblemech and all his slagging Tower subtleties right through the floor.

Scrap him for recyclables if the last five months of scrambled schedules didn’t make more sense now.

 

**[* * * * *]**  
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/gunmaxual/pic/00055aw7/)  
“Accidental Love Story” **by** [](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://shibara-ffnet.livejournal.com/)**shibara_ffnet**  
 **[* * * * *]**


	2. An Intentional Happenstance

**[* * * * *]**

**Title:** An Accidental Love Story, Pt. 2  
 **Artist:** **Warnings:** Confusion, invisibility, domination, bodily harm, and Vikings.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1, _“A Taste for Security”_ spin-off  
 **Characters:** Cliffjumper, Red Alert, Mirage  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors (or scenery), nor does it make a profit from the play. Artist and author did not actually try to kill each other.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** Artist vs Author deathmatch challenge gone wrong. Because it started with a picture, and artists should know better than to challenge authors who are easily provoked…

 

**[* * * * *]**

 

**Pt. 2: An Intentional Happenstance**  
(In which the Brick of Subtlety is introduced to Cliffjumper’s head.)  
 _’Carry your Shield of Ignorance high, and wield the Brick of Subtlety!’_

 

He was never going to get used to dating a Special Operations mech.

No, scratch that. He was never going to get used to dating a _noblemech._ The SpecOps thing was just the weird icing on the strange cake.

Despite warning Mirage about his complete inability to catch subtexts, the spy continued to be as subtle as Cliffjumper was blunt. He couldn’t count how many times he’d missed some sort of miniscule cue from the blue Autobot and only caught on when the insulted huffing started. And, whoa, Mirage could huff with the best of them. Eons in the Autobot army, and the Towers mech still went stiff and angry when spited. Then he proceeded to let everyone within a six mechanometer radius know of his ire through cloak-and-dagger verbal digs and pointed body language.

It was like dating a prickly mechanical cactus. Cliffjumper never knew when he was going to get a hug or a frigid glare because he’d failed to pick up some sort of hint.

All in all, getting captured by the Decepticons was kind of a relief. At least getting punched until his plating buckled and optics cracked wasn’t _subtle_. Cliffjumper knew exactly why he was getting kicked repeatedly in the hood, and nobody was sniffing contemptuously and saying, “If you don’t know, then I’m not telling you.”

Of course, it hurt like the Pit, but he could deal with pain. 

He wasn’t sure he could deal with another week of Mirage’s bizarre Tower mannerisms. 

Cliffjumper curled up in the corner of his cell and kept pressure on a severed fuel line, dully watching the door in case the guards came back for more. It wasn’t likely. The battle had been a particularly nasty one, and he knew he’d seen two or more flyers go down behind the Autobot lines. Barring a miraculous escape by the crashed Decepticons, Cliffjumper had more value as a bargaining chit than entertainment. That didn’t mean his time in Decepticon hands would be pleasant, but it did mean the guards gave his self-repair some time before starting in on him again. 

In the meantime, the red Minibot distracted himself. Mirage, thankfully enough, was excellent for that. Lots of shiny blue armor, and that tall, sleek frame, and the little moans he let out when Cliffjumper finally got him hot enough to forget for half a klik that he was some sort of emotionless robot too dignified for honest reactions, and -- and --

\-- and Mirage was driving him _crazy._ The interfacing was good, don’t get him wrong. Mirage was actually the type to enjoy getting tossed into the berth and ‘faced until he couldn’t see straight, and Cliffjumper liked that he could randomly grab the taller Autobot for a highly public all-but-fragging kiss wherever and whenever he wanted. Since Mirage’s stupid noblemech manners apparently didn’t allow him to outright say when he wanted it, that left it up to the red Minibot to check at every possible opportunity. This was not an unpleasant duty in the least, especially since Mirage’s frametype resembled a racer’s. With high performance systems came high demand. Cliffjumper could barely keep up, some days.

So constantly checking on the spy’s libido? Not a bad thing at all. 

On the other hand, that same set of Towers manners required Cliffjumper to be the mind-reading aggressor in their relationship. Again, not necessarily a bad thing, but _all the time?_ He wasn’t Soundwave in the berth!...and, urgh, wasn’t that a horrible thought. 

The whole situation was getting tiring. No, actually, he was tired already. Elite Towers manners were the most horrible behaviorisms every invented. He was getting better at picking up on when and what Mirage wanted, but…okay, for instance, for the last two weeks the blue Autobot had been in an utter snit because, so far as Cliffjumper knew, the red Minibot cared enough to make sure Mirage was functioning correctly. When the spy’s invisibility cloak had malfunctioned for the third time in a row in the middle of an excellent bout of _‘The neighbors are going to complain!’_ interfacing, Cliffjumper had stopped everything -- again -- and refused to accept Mirage’s dismissive “Just a glitch” explanation. Mirage was a larger mech, but Cliffjumper could heft guns bigger than the blue mech. He’d dragged the protesting noblemech to the medbay himself. 

Ratchet had taken one look at the two of them glaring at each other in the entryway and told Cliffjumper to scram. Patient-doctor confidentiality, everybody knew that, but Cliffjumper had hung around in the hall waiting to hear if it was serious. Having the Mirage fade to invisible in the midst of some truly memorable ‘facing was…unsettling. He’d been worried that there’d been a mechanical malfunction. If Mirage’s unique ability started going haywire under high-stress situations like a good fragging, he could only imagine how it’d go wrong while on a dangerous mission. 

He’d been a little hurt when Mirage had gotten out of the medbay fourteen kliks later and used that slagging stealth cloak to dodge him in the hall. It obviously hadn’t been much of a problem if Ratchet let him go that quickly, so what was the big deal? Cliffjumper had _thought_ he gotten the hint, even through the stiffly formal way Mirage conveyed such things, that they were getting pretty exclusive these days. Wasn’t he allowed to be concerned at this stage of a relationship?

Then the slagging blue noblemech had retreated into supremely chilly civility, exchanging frostbitten conversation instead of their regular banter because open communication was _common_ and _vulgar_ , and Cliffjumper had been reining in his temper like mad because he was _trying_ , slaggit, and now he was stuck in a Decepticon prison cell thinking that this was a welcome break from the subdued drama that his life had become. And that was all kinds of wrong. He liked Mirage, but this was becoming ridiculous. 

He pressed harder on his severed fuel line and sullenly tucked himself into a defensive ball. Bah. If the noblemech couldn’t be bothered to tell him what he wanted, then he couldn’t want it very badly. 

Something swept over him.

Cliffjumper’s vents stuttered, and his optics popped wide. He had just enough presence of mind not to move more than that. 

The ‘something’ resolved slowly into a familiar tingling sweep. It started near his feet, meshing slowly into the red Minibot’s fitful electromagnetic field. The harsh sputter of damaged circuitry underneath dented armor made his EM field almost painful to the touch, but the inquisitive tingling probed deeper. It seemed to be trying to do a field diagnosis of just how badly he was injured. The answer wasn’t a good one. A sympathetic glitter of _’Poor you.’_ spangled over the edges of his field when the tingling reached his snapped knee joints, but Cliffjumper pushed back with the dismissive equivalent of _’I’ve had worse.’_ It was true, and he’d even fought with worse. Give him a gun and some form of a shield, and he’d be a formidable force.

The Decepticons crippled him because they could, not because it made him any less of a threat. He smirked into his corner and tried to absorb more pleasure than pain from the familiar tingle now stroking up his curled back. He didn’t move more than that. His cell probably had video surveillance, but sound wasn’t as likely. As long as he didn’t react visibly and stayed quiet, the guards would stay away. 

The tingle became careful touches from fingertips too fine to have been manufactured anywhere but in the Iacon Towers. They dipped into the crease where one of the Primus-fragged Coneheads had forced his helm projection back in on itself, almost doubling it over. That _hurt_ , but a moment later a thrumming click announced a connection made in the crease. 

Glued into place and hidden from sight, the tiny communication speaker vibrated more than it projected. It was a trick that kept anyone not standing right next to him from hearing anything. “Cliffjumper?” Red Alert asked.

“Present and accounted for,” Cliffjumper breathed.

“Hold your position,” the Security Director said briskly, all business. “Megatron is being stubborn about a prisoner trade. A break-out may not be required, but Mirage will be staying close at hand in case negotiations fall through. How mobile are you?”

“I’ll crawl if I gotta.” A fierce grin directed at the wall, and the hands now exploring the back of his helm pushed amusement through their meshed fields. 

“It shouldn’t come to that, I hope.” There was a click of keys, and Red Alert ‘hmm’ed briefly. “I will leave this line open. It’s transmitting through Mirage’s commlink, so don’t be alarmed if I don’t respond when he leaves close proximity to you.” 

“ **If** I leave close proximity to you,” was restated deep and -- um, that was a rather interesting tone of voice. Yeah. ‘Interesting’ sounded about right.

The other thing that took some getting used to when dating a Special Operations mech was the entire division’s complete lack of shame when it came to spectators. Cliffjumper got revved when someone played voyeur, but he had gotten the distinct feeling that most of SpecOps couldn’t relax fully unless Red Alert or Jazz was monitoring them. He hadn’t asked -- mostly because he was fairly sure he already knew the answer -- but he thought Mirage maintained a constant comm. line to one or the other mechs at all time. That made bedding Mirage more of a threesome, really.

So of course Mirage would feel absolutely no shame in sharing intimate whispers over an open comm. channel. Not like Red Alert hadn’t heard it before. And Cliffjumper was generally okay with that. Red Alert had been Security Director a long, long time, and it’d take some doing to show the Lamborghini something nobody had done yet. Which could have been a fun challenge, except for the fact that Cliffjumper was _currently in a Decepticon prison cell._

“What are you doing?” he whispered into the shelter of his arms. The severed tubing had a tender patch over it now, but his curled position kept his face hidden from any watching guards. Cliffjumper didn’t uncurl, because he has the sinking certainty that he knew exactly what Mirage was doing. The gentle, exploring strokes were dipping into areas that were most definitely not injured. “Not now!”

“Yes, now,” Mirage whispered right back, and slag Cliffjumper if the invisible spy didn’t sound frustrated. “You’ve been away for four days!”

Four? Huh, he was missing some time. Must have been when Motormaster had started kicking him in the head.

This was hardly the time or place for a quickie, but Cliffjumper hesitated. Mirage had surely gone much longer without ‘facing before, so he sort of felt responsible for amping up the other Autobot’s interfacing drive. It was like taking weeks to tune up a high performance race car and, once it was operating at an even higher level, leaving it to sit. That was just a pathetic thing to see happen. Plus, it was so rare to get Mirage to outright admit he _wanted_ something that he had to be all but begging for it right now. That meant he wanted it bad, real bad, and that made Cliffjumper feel kind of guilty for turning him down cold.

But…they were in a prison cell. Cliffjumper couldn’t touch the other Autobot without giving away the game. He couldn’t even see his partner, and that was just weird anyway because it made him think of the last time they’d interfaced and how Mirage had disappeared in the middle of -- of --

Oh, come _on._ No way. He had to be jumping to conclusions again, because otherwise he was going to have to spank the subtlety right out of the noblemech for this one.

Hidden by his arms, Cliffjumper’s optics narrowed. “Mirage…no.”

“Yes.”

“I said **no** ,” he repeated, emphasizing it as much as he dared in a whisper.

A tiny, tiny whine came from far in the back of the blue Autobot’s throat. It sounded like it’d struggled past Mirage’s dignity, and both had emerged battered from the fight. “But…“ Clever, obscenely well-crafted fingertips slipped down Cliffjumper’s side to toy with the latches to one of his ports. “It’d be nice…”

The Minibot shrugged them off irritably, covering the motion by shifting position in his corner. Seriously, right over his knee. A few good smacks in front of the whole blasted bridge shift should teach the tall noblemech a lesson or two about trying manipulation over actual communication. The whole ‘too polite for words’ Towerling attitude really had to go. “You tell me why you’re so dead-set on doing it like this,” he hissed, “and I’ll consider it.”

Cue the extremely uncomfortable silence.

He grumbled his engine, scowling as pistons stuck hideously. His hydraulics weren’t happy, either. All in all, he just wasn’t in the mood to indulge Mirage if Mirage wasn’t going to stuff his dignity down enough to drop to the common mech’s level every once and a while. Cliffjumper was okay with Mirage not saying when he wanted to get laid. Really, he could deal with it. It wasn’t that much different than bringing shy little Bluestreak to berth, because Bluestreak was perfectly capable of talking about everything but how very, very much he wanted to bang bumpers with someone. It was sometimes hit-or-miss on guesswork, but that was okay.

Looking at it that way, the never-ending quest to read Mirage’s mind in the berth really only irritated him because of the constant manipulation. When the noblemech wanted something, he tried to mindscrew Cliffjumper into doing it for him. Instead of, say, _asking_. Y’know, like a sane mech would? Surely this was not a foreign concept, even amidst the back-stabbing subtle snobbery of the Towers.

His engine flooded as a fuel line popped open somewhere deep inside, and now Cliffjumper really wasn’t in the mood. He coughed and curled into a hostile ball of red and black, refusing to acknowledge the hand insistently petting at his waist. 

“Lemme alone,” he growled.

“I…” The words emerged like they were clawing out of Mirage’s vocalizer. “I…want to…to stay cloaked. I…”

He couldn’t help but respond. “You could have said that before I took you to Ratchet!” the Minibot snapped in a low whisper behind his arm.

“I **told** you nothing was wrong!” Mirage whispered back, sounding indignant.

“No, you said it was a glitch. A glitch means something is wrong, especially when it happens three times in a row! What was I supposed to think?” He curled up even tighter, stubbornly covering his head with his arms as anger finally broke over his face. He’d been trying so fragging hard not to lose his temper at the other Autobots only to have Mirage push and push and _push_ at his self-control like this. “You want me to be the strong, dominant one dragging you by one leg off for some down-and-dirty filthy fragging,” he muttered, “but you can’t stop trying to control me.” 

There was a noticeable squirm of discomfort against his field. Mirage didn’t like having his manipulations pointed out, apparently.

Well, tough cookies. Nine million years of war, and the Iacon Towers still cast heavy shadows over Cybertron. It’d have done a lot of good if someone had called out the noblemechs on their behind-the-scenes scheming before the Senate had gone totally corrupt. Mirage was a good Autobot. Cliffjumper knew that. But he was fed up with the mind-fragging. 

…maybe they’d be better off calling off this whatever-it-was they had going on. Mirage was a Special Operations enigma wrapped in a riddle concealed by an invisibility cloak, and Cliffjumper was no good at deciphering the clues being dropped for him. This really wasn’t the time for interfacing, and it was an even more spectacularly awkward time to dump a mech, but it was probably for the best that he ended this now. Really, what was a Towers mech doing with a common Minibot like Cliffjumper, anyway? Cliffjumper was too dense to take a hint, even when the hint involved getting kinky in the berth. Or in a Decepticon cell, for that matter. 

He relaxed his curl slightly, sighing dibbles of lubricant out his vents from a leaking hose. “Look, Mirage. We’ve had a good run, but -- “

An arm wrapped abruptly around his waist, tapered fingers running up over his altmode’s roof to caress his throat and hesitantly pat at his jawline. Cliffjumper had to fake a sudden coughing fit to cover how he jolted in place as Mirage pressed against his back, curling around him like a second coat of armor. And that armor was _hot_ , running fast and irregular as Mirage’s stealth mod worked overtime to fool watching cameras. To the naked optic, there was nothing in the dark cell but a wounded Autobot huddled in the corner, coughing and miserable while his self-repair slowly patched him. Only Mirage and Cliffjumper knew differently, and the mech with his face buried in the Minibot’s flat tire was well-aware that what was visible only scratched the surface of what was actually there.

“I want to see you stay stoic while I’m hooked into you,” mumbled hurried and ashamed against the torn rubber. “I want you to not change. I want you to -- to **be** , instead of focused on me, on how I’m reacting. You always d-distract me when I start to just watch you,” the flow of words hitched slightly, recalling Cliffjumper’s many and varied methods of driving thoughts from a mech’s head when he thought his lover wasn’t completely mindless with pleasure, “and I…I want to look through my own body and watch how your plating shifts under my weight, or how your cables stretch when I pull them. I want to see it. I want to watch you. I want to hold you down and frag you hard and really **see** how you look without me in the way. I want…I want to be invisible.”

The rush of words ended in a stuttered pant of air against Cliffjumper’s neck, and the smaller Autobot could only reset his optics in dumb wonder. Mirage was venting hot air, all but quivering with pent-up desire just from blurting out things no noblemech should want, and it made sense, in a way. Spies watched. Mirage was a spy. A Towers mech made spy, and why oh why did he have to be desperate before he said stuff like this? Cliffjumper’s broken fans were weakly rattling, pain or no, and Mirage _had_ to hear them.

“I want you right now.” The fingers on his jaw ventured up and brushed against split lips as the invisible mech huskily whispered heated words against his neck cables. Mirage’s other hand slid between wall and the smaller Autobot’s body to tease at the dented panel loosely covering Cliffjumper’s cables. “Right here. Where you can’t turn the tables on me, and you can’t do anything but take while I watch. Where I have to stay invisible.” The cables were sore from being stomped on, and three of the six connectors were crushed, but they still sparked interest against gentle fingers. Cliffjumper opened his mouth and licked at one of the fingers pressing into his lower lip, inviting it in. Mirage made a tiny, soft noise of hope. “Please?”

He sucked the finger in up to the second knuckle joint as an answer. 

“Red Alert, you still there?” he said after a full klik of feeling himself heat up under Mirage’s invisible but very busy hands. The thrill of being watched and the challenge of not reacting visibly or vocally enough to draw the Decepticons’ attention was…terribly kinky and really revving him. That didn’t mean he’d forgotten he was a captive. He needed to speed things up a bit, or he would inevitably give something away with an ill-concealed twitch or stifled sound.

“Yes.” The Security Director could not have sounded blander, despite undoubtedly having heard everything.

“Just in case I forget, can you remind me of something later?” Cliffjumper paused to nibble on the nearest finger, securely hidden from the camera behind his arm. It was the only participation he could afford, and he intended to take full advantage of it. There was a gust of hot air vented against his whip-scored back with every slick of his tongue over the finger, so he wasn’t doing too bad a job of it. 

“Of course.”

“Remind me,” _nibble nibble_ and scrap it felt good when Mirage kissed around the burnt places where Skywarp had fired his thrusters on his plating, “to tie Mirage upside-down and spread-eagle on the common room couch when I get back. Feet to the corners, aft against the backrest, back flat on the seat, and wrists to the couch feet.” Gust, singular, turned to a typhoon-worthy gale as invisible vents flipped wide open and fans went on full in less than a second. “I want to unlock all his doors and prop them open, and remove his wheel lugs one,” he drew the words out, whispering in a breathy growl, “by,” Mirage whimpered against his back, “one. When I’m done taking his wheels off, I want to dab hot wax down his thighs a thumb-length at a time, rotate his axles through a full re-greasing, and kiss him so often I **sound** like him afterward.”

He paused to pull in cool air, because his damaged ventilation system wasn’t coping with the extra layer of armor wrapped around him generating so much excess heat. “Then I want to leave him like that while we have a long talk about what it is that **he** wants, because I’m so sick of not talking about this fragging stuff I could bite something.” He nipped in illustration, and Mirage made a very quiet strangled sound that wanted to be a full-throated cry. “And every time he goes invisible, I want to untie him and walk away. As many times as I gotta. Until he finally starts talking.” The hands had sped up noticeably with every word out of Cliffjumper’s mouth, urgently rubbing at pained sensors, but now Mirage fumbled for the red Minibot’s working connectors. “Got all that, Red?”

“Got it,” Red Alert said, sounding amused. “I’ll make sure to remind you.”

“Got that, Mirage?” 

“Got…got it.” The noblemech’s voice shook a little as cables connected.

“Good,” Cliffjumper managed around the three fingers suddenly thrust into his mouth, as subtle as a freight train to the face. There wasn’t a lot of reactions the Minibot could show here and now in Decepticon territory, but Mirage quite obviously wanted everything the smaller mech could give him _right this second._

That, at least, was the kind of hint Cliffjumper could take.

 

**[* * * * *]**


	3. An Obstinate Affair

**[* * * * *]**

**Title:** An Accidental Love Story, Pt. 3  
 **Warnings:** Confusion, invisibility, domination, bodily harm, and Vikings.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1, _“A Taste for Security”_ spin-off  
 **Characters:** Cliffjumper, Red Alert, Mirage  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors (or scenery), nor does it make a profit from the play. Artist and author did not actually try to kill each other.   
**Motivation (Prompt):** Artist vs Author deathmatch challenge gone wrong. Because it started with a picture, and artists should know better than to challenge authors who are easily provoked…

**[* * * * *]**

**Pt. 3: An Obstinate Affair**  
(In which Cliffjumper looks at real estate in some place called Denial.)  
 _’Living in Ignorance is expensive but blissful.’_

 

Special Operations did passive-aggressive like it was going out of style. When one operative got offended, the whole division started snubbing whomever was to blame. With a division like SpecOps, that meant misery rained down upon a mech until appropriate apologies were tendered. 

Tracks had once told Hound that the green scout resembled a mutt instead of anything of real breeding, and the pink-faced mech hadn’t been able to take two steps without sabotage appearing after that. Mud had poured out of the ceiling tiles; used oil had been flung on him ‘accidentally’ in the medbay; scrapes in his paint appeared during his recharge cycles. The thing with the elephant dung had been the last straw. Nobody knew for sure, but the only suspect with access to elephants had been Beachcomber, so he’d been the one credited for the vain mech’s shrieked, ranting apology in the common room three days after the initial insult. 

To be fair, SpecOps did turn their peculiar brand of disciplinary action on each other just as viciously. The day Jazz had made Carly cry had likely been the most maliciously pranked 24 hours of the officer’s life. Wheeljack and Ironhide had put their respective territories preemptively into lockdown the moment she burst into tears, but the rest of SpecOps had _still_ managed to break in and steal half their stuff to inflict on Jazz. And that had been after the Autobot Third-in-Command had apologized profusely. The mean-spirited pranks hadn’t stopped until he bought her a new car.

Nothing was every _said_ , however. The whole division specialized in never once bringing up what they were making someone pay _for._

Cliffjumper had never been one for fashion. He didn’t do passive-aggressive, stylish or otherwise. He did aggressive, and sometimes he could be pretty passive when the situation and/or berthmate called for it, but he was big on communication these days. Sometimes done at the top of his vocalizer volume, but still -- communication. 

Unfortunately, he seemed to be intimately involved with the poster mech for SpecOps’ communication issues. A week and half into the newest bout of _’hmmph!’_ and pointed subject changes, and Cliffjumper was ready to bean Mirage in the head with a dictionary. Words, mech. _Use them._

Fortunately, he’d decided to consult the relationship gurus. Perceptor and Wheeljack were the masters of using whatever was on hand. Give them two rolls of duct-tape and a mirror, and they could fix any mech’s situation. As they’d been in the middle of doing when he walked into the _Ark_ ’s laboratory to talk with them. 

“He likes you, obviously,” Wheeljack had said while taping down Optimus Prime’s wrist. 

“Else he would not consistently seek your companionship,” Perceptor had agreed as he worked on a knee. “He does not enjoy being away from you, as I believe we can all attest.” 

The engineer and the scientist had paused to remember that unhappy moment in recent Autobot history. Cliffjumper, Bumblebee, and Gears had been concealed in medbay for extensive reformatting before being smuggled back to Cybertron looking like the Reflector components. No one but the top Autobot officers had known where the three Minibots had vanished to, and Mirage had taken the unexplained separation…badly. Sort of how a mother grizzly bear separated from her cubs took such things.

Cliffjumper had returned from that mission just in time to prevent Mirage’s court-martial. He hadn’t gotten the details, but apparently the charges involved various insubordinate acts done while trying to pry information out of Jazz in a most unpleasant manner. Knowing Mirage, verbal insubordination probably hadn’t been on the list. The questions would have been asked in icily polite tones. 

“Yeah. He likes you,” Wheeljack had repeated needlessly.

One knee taped down, and Perceptor had sat on the other one to keep Prime from bucking free. “This is a matter of compromise,” the scientist had drawn out as he measured out an intimidatingly long strip of silver tape. “You should not ask him to change overmuch for you, but in this matter you are most uncomfortable with his current methodology. He has indicated a desire to change it himself?”

That’d taken a second to translate, mostly because Cliffjumper had been staring fixedly at Optimus staring fixedly at the reflection of the fixed -- uh. Right. Relationship advice from the masters, who’d been quite masterful at the time and totally understood the red Minibot’s need to take a moment to appreciate their mastery. 

“…what? Oh, yeah. We talked,” with Mirage’s legs tied in a lewd spread over the back of the couch and Cliffjumper sitting beside him with one of his own legs thrown over the blue mech’s waist, “and he’s trying. He said he wants to meet me halfway on this, but I dunno. He keeps getting…” He made an aimless gesture, trying to describe it. It’d been easier to understand when Mirage had been helpless and whimpering and willing to do anything, anything at all to work this out. “Hung up on dignity, I guess? Stuck in the past?” 

He lowered his voice and muttered, “It’s like he likes making me hold him down and dictate terms.”

At that, Wheeljack and Perceptor had straightened up and looked at each other. The weighted, knowing look spread to include Optimus. The Prime even stopped jerking at his bound limbs long enough to join the group look turned on Cliffjumper. _Everybody_ knew what kind of relationship Mirage and Cliffjumper had, especially after the Night of the Couch. The couch had needed to be cleaned afterward, for Primus’ sake, and Spike had finally stopped dithering and proposed to Carly the next morning. 

“…oh.”

‘Oh,’ indeed. Mirage really needed to come with an instruction manual, or maybe a handy booklet of noble-to-normal translations. That’d be nice. For Cliffjumper’s peace of mind, if nothing else. 

Cliffjumper had a tendency to over-think personal issues since that whole traitor accusation thing. Jazz, Prowl, and Optimus Prime had all had long talks with him about unfounded accusations against fellow Autobots, and he’d been _trying_ to control himself ever since. That did leave him double-guessing himself a little too often when it came to dealing with Mirage and his blasted Towers mannerisms, however. Subtlety was not Cliffjumper’s specialty. Mirage doing his version of _‘Relationship Cues Via Innuendo’_ wasn’t working so well when Cliffjumper was trying _not_ to leap to conclusions based on circumstantial evidence. 

Wheeljack and Perceptor’s advice hadn’t been kind, but it’d been needed. Cliffjumper sort of had the dominant role in this strange version of a relationship, but Mirage kept fighting him for control. The red Miniobot’s mistake had been in assuming that meant the obvious answer. He’d been trying to give Mirage more equality, caving when the blue Autobot pushed him, even when the pushed issues really rankled. No, really, he’d been giving ground on the most annoying things ever. If Cliffjumper heard one more snide remark about ‘commoners,’ he was going to lose his temper at last and punch the mech.

The obvious answer was apparently not the right one, according to Wheeljack and Perceptor. And Optimus, although the Prime’s vote had been nonverbal. The masters of building firm boundaries out of miscellaneous objects had given Cliffjumper some not-so-obvious advice: put the noblemech back in his place. _Forcefully._

Cliffjumper didn’t quite have the ball bearings to use their advice about Mirage’s altmode and the medbay car lift, but, hey. Maybe next month. This didn’t seem to be a problem that would be resolved overnight, anyway.

It had definitely been time to begin working on it, however. He had marched directly to Prowl’s office from the lab. A quick series of rearranged duty-shifts later, and he’d headed off to the common room for some old-fashioned face-to-face communication time. If nothing else, seeing mechs flounder for responses had quickly made it his favorite form of conflict resolution. 

“I get off on being super polite and correct on people who are disrespectful to me,” Carly had confided in him back when he’d asked her for help keeping a grip on his temper. She always seemed so calm and collected when confronting people, and Cliffjumper had to admit that he viewed those confrontations in a different light now that he knew her secret.

Chalk up a point for Carly. He’d tried it himself, and…slag. Keeping control was difficult but, but watching someone else lose it got him really _hot._

He’d confronted Mirage at Special Operations’ unofficial gathering table, which the taller mech hadn’t expected. Usually, Cliffjumper was pretty good about respecting boundaries in their relationship. The red Minibot had learned to just leave well enough alone when Mirage got disdainful about sitting with Cliffjumper’s buddies. Especially when the spiteful comments about _‘sitting with the commoners’_ started. He just let Mirage go off to do whatever he wanted, which was usually stalk off in a huff or go sit with SpecOps.

Sitting at the SpecOps’ table was a giant flashing neon sign of lordly disfavor and _’I’m having a hissy-fit right now and don’t want to speak with you, so nyah!’_ Except marginally more dignified, because Mirage wouldn’t actually stoop to sticking out his tongue. Unless he were about to use it. Which…wasn’t the kind of thought Cliffjumper had wanted to entertain at that precise moment.

The red Minibot had stormed into the common room like a miniature tornado of fury and come to a belligerent halt in front of the SpecOps’ table and its occupants. The operatives had stared. Cliffjumper had scowled back. Then he’d folded his arms, reset his vocalizer, and said his piece. 

“I,” he’d declared in ringing tones that’d made this particular bit of communication perfectly clear to everybody in a three-room radius, “am not talking to you. I don’t want to even **see** you. You can come and find me when you’re good and ready to apologize for being an insensitive glob of waste oil, and you’d better be ready to talk about it when you do. Got that?” He’d leveled an ill-tempered glare like a weapon.

Mirage had been shocked immobile, ration cube stopped halfway to his mouth. That mouth had worked uncertainly before squeaking out a dumbfounded, “Yes?”

But Cliffjumper had been looking at the other mechs at the table. Hound had blinked back in surprise. Trailbreaker had nodded tentatively when glared at long enough. Jazz had touched two fingers to his helm in sardonic acknowledgement of the ultimatum.

“Good.” With that, the little red Autobot had whirled and stomped back the way he’d come. To a round of applause from the entire common room, oddly enough. When had Cliffjumper’s personal affairs become everyone else’s soap opera?

…meh. The acting was better than anything on _’As The Kitchen Sinks.’_

Things hadn’t been half bad after that. Shifts hadn’t been a problem. Prowl did some fancy shuffling of the duty schedule, and Cliffjumper and Mirage were sent in opposite directions most days. That kept the blue spy out of his sight on-shift, which kept the awkwardness down. Whenever they did somehow end up in the same room, all the other occupants mysteriously kept getting in the way. Cliffjumper had been somewhat alarmed, then just plain entertained by the antics that ensued when Mirage so much as took a step toward him. 

Although the tripwire in the medbay had scared the bolts out of him. He’d just been lying there as First Aid repaired his leg after the latest battle with the Decepticons, and Mirage had suddenly hit the medbay floor in a tangle of elegant limbs and not-so-elegant splotches of green paint. Cliffjumper still couldn’t believe Sideswipe had gotten away with pulling that right in Ratchet’s domain. Or maybe the frontliner had gotten permission beforehand.

That would kind of explain just how Mirage, invisible spy extraordinaire, hadn’t been able to so much as set foot in Cliffjumper’s general vicinity in twelve days. It seemed that the Autobots had taken a side, and that side was Cliffjumper’s. Optimus Prime himself had called Mirage for a meeting out of nowhere when the spy was almost within audio range, and Cliffjumper couldn’t say that the timing was coincidental. Blaster had idly mentioned a recent problem on the comm. network, too. Something about frequently lost messages from certain senders. 

Special Operations was firmly in the red Minibot’s camp as well. He hadn’t actually _seen_ any of the incidents described, but Bluestreak had chattered through a lengthy list of ‘accidents’ that had befallen Mirage lately. Photos of the homemade Spy Piñata in the common room had been promised. Bluestreak had also giggled through a story of Sparkplug, 6 dozen powdered sugar raspberry jelly-filled donuts, and Mirage’s upholstery.

Guilt had threatened Cliffjumper for approximately a klik afterward, but it went away soon enough.

The same mechs now defending his dubious honor were the same mechs he’d listened to Mirage belittle and look down upon for a couple of months now. The last three weeks had been increasingly bad, but the lead-up had been nasty enough. Cliffjumper had just been trying to tolerate all the sniping comments directed at his pals and, well, himself for too long. Let them get their petty revenge. They hadn’t heard the stuff Mirage had said only in the privacy of Cliffjumper’s quarters, and frag if the Minibot was going to spread _that_ hurt around. He had enough trouble controlling his own temper without trying to rein in everyone else’s.

Righteous anger had motivated him to stay away during his off-shifts, and it seemed as if the entire _Ark_ crew had started a plethora of Really Important projects that he had to help them with Right Now. He hadn’t had free time to think, much less get mopey. When he did have time, somebody was always lurking about willing to fill it. And by ‘willing to fill it,’ he meant ‘predatorily waiting to pounce on him.’ 

He was beginning to feel a bit hunted, actually. Not in a bad way, but chasing the wild Cliffjumper’s tailpipe had evidently been a missed sport. Everyone wanted to catch up on lost time.

Hoist and Grapple had insisted he ”spend some time becoming better acquainted with us.” That had involved a vanilla set of berth escapades that had left the three of them tired, greatly pleased with themselves, and certainly better acquainted than when they’d started. That’d been downright nice.

Bumblebee had asked him to stay in the Protectobot base all of Tuesday, which of course had let to a cuddle pile of epic proportions. It’d also turned into competitive fire truck groping once Bumblebee came by and agreed to participate in the first annual Autobot _‘What Goes Up Must Come Down’_ ladder-climbing race. Hot Spot’s sirens had gone off three times during the event, and his knees hadn’t exactly been steady when he’d proclaimed “the red Autobot” the victor. 

Since Bumblebee had, inexplicably, shown up that evening painted in Cliffjumper’s colors, they’d figured the fire truck hadn’t been able to see straight enough to qualify as a judge anymore. Either that, or they’d both won. The other four Protectobots had decided in his stead that there had to be a tie-breaker round.

It hadn’t helped. A tie had been declared due to judge incapacitation. Hot Spot’s emergency lights had still been flashing fitfully when the two Minibots took off for the _Ark_ afterward. 

Ratchet, in the Medbay, with jumper cables. Enough said.

Grimlock, in altmode, with teeth. Words unnecessary.

How had Cliffjumper forgotten how much fun it was to be unencumbered? It wasn’t that Mirage had ever asked for commitment, because Primus forbid the noblemech outright _ask_ for what he wanted, but Cliffjumper had gradually ceased playing other ‘instruments’ in the Autobot orchestra. The spy didn’t have exclusive rights to the red Minibot’s berth, but…quite frankly, Mirage had a racer’s frametype. He had both a superior design and custom-manufactured parts from the Iacon Towers. Even after millions of years of war, he functioned at a higher level in pretty much every category. _Every_ category. 

Cliffjumper hadn’t had the energy to frag around for months. Now he suddenly had all that energy free to give to good homes, and a whole parade of Autobots willing to adopt him for a night or two. Or three.

It wasn’t until Omega Supreme propositioned him that Cliffjumper realized exactly how many mechs he’d been interfacing with just to feel normal. His systems were just that high-output, now. He’d adjusted to keeping up with the noblemech’s stamina. Months of interpreting Mirage’s subtle -- but frequent -- signals had geared him up to read every gesture and wink sent his direction to mean, “Frag me through the wall, right here and now.”

He’d pondered the ramifications of that for a whole six seconds before shoving the thought in a small hole somewhere. What, was he supposed to feel bad that he was having fun? Pfft, whatever. He had a Supreme willing to interface him dizzy, and all was right with the world.

Sure, he felt increasingly moody as every day passed, but all relationships had their ups and downs. He had to establish firm limits now or be prepared to walk away before the blue Autobot made him completely unhappy. He’d been well on his way down that route before consulting Perceptor and Wheeljack. He didn’t _like_ not knowing what Mirage wanted on any given day. He didn’t _like_ having to decode the noblemech’s frustratingly deceptive politeness. He didn’t _like_ having to restrain himself every time Mirage opened his fragging mouth.

Most of all, he didn’t like winding himself into anxious knots inside trying to decide if Mirage wanted to be tied up and left on display in the common room, or be treated like a dignified upper class Towers mech. Cliffjumper had been tolerating Mirage’s hints and nudges and boundary-pushing long enough. As Perceptor and Wheeljack has suggested, it was past time to make the noblemech decide for _himself_ where his place was. More than that, he needed to admit out loud where that place was. Then Cliffjumper could put him there.

No more ever-so-unhelpful conversations about the declining grade of energon in the rations. No more snooty comments on the company Cliffjumper kept. No more cold shoulder because of missed hints Cliffjumper hadn’t even been aware of. 

Speak out or get out time, Mirage.

So Cliffjumper stubbornly refused to miss the mech. He spent his off-shifts flirting with Aerialbots, Blades, Gears, and Powerglide. Well, not all of them at once -- but yes, all of them, and not one at a time. He intentionally ignored the few times Mirage actually managed to get within speaking distance, because that never lasted too long. If the spy said anything, Cliffjumper didn’t hear him before circumstances separated them again. Circumstances mainly being other Autobots, but there had also been a security system in Corridor 49-1A going haywire and, in one memorable and rather frightening instance, a herd of Dinobots stampeding through the _Ark_ ’s bridge. 

It was depressing by the twelfth day, honestly. Mirage was good, but…one spy versus the entire Special Operations division and the rest of the Autobots wasn’t very fair. Cliffjumper hadn’t even caught a glimpse of finely polished blue armor in two days. 

Maybe Mirage had given up.

Teach Cliffjumper to get his hopes up. Mirage might not have been a traitor, but that didn’t make the mech any less capable of backstabbing someone in the spark.

He reported for a late-night shift in a sour mood and waved the last shift out with a grunted, “’night, guys.” 

Huffer and Skids gave him slightly concerned looks for the lackluster greeting, but Cliffjumper only grimaced. He really didn’t want their well-meaning worry tonight. He didn’t like doubting himself, and right now he was stuck in the middle of wondering if Mirage had ever felt more than passing lust for him. Had the advice been totally off-target? Had he demanded too much of the noblemech? 

“Cliffjumper.” Red Alert seemed distracted as the others left, but he always seemed distracted when he took a late shift. He’d spend most of it physically transferring security footage down to the _Ark_ ’s secure archives for final examination and processing. It meant he had to walk back and forth across the ship about fifteen times total, and the connection between Security Director and Teletraan 1 had to be maintained the whole time or the downloads automatically scrambled. It was a complicated procedure requiring the majority of Red Alert’s attention.

The Lamborghini still spared enough to nod cordially at the red Minibot. Probably because even a notoriously duty-conscious mech like him had to suffer a short flashback to this same Minibot training him for the next annual Autobot ladder-climbing race. Inferno hadn’t been able to walk straight after that particular training session. 

“How are you tonight?” Red Alert asked with absent-mindedly courtesy.

He’d been better. “Fine,” Cliffjumper said, because he really wasn’t the type to admit to feeling down even with Megatron standing on his back. “You ready?” 

“Only waiting for you.” 

Ten months ago, Cliffjumper would have lashed out at that comment. He’d have assumed it was a dig against him. His first thought was still that Red Alert’s words implied he was slow or late, but it was habit now to rethink that initial thought. He gave the Security Director a suspicious look but was too preoccupied with his own worries to summon more than a few seconds of irritation. The Lamborghini didn’t even look up at him, and on second thought, it was just Red Alert stating a fact. 

Cliffjumper was overreacting. Again. Of course. Because that’s what he did.

“…yeah, okay. I’m here,” he said shortly. He flung himself into the nearest seat and signed into the shift log. Red Alert’s footsteps left the bridge behind him, leaving him alone on the deck. 

Usually there had to be a two-mech party on the bridge shift at all times, but he’d be sitting alone on the bridge tonight while Red Alert did his slow, manual transference. The Autobots walking patrols through the ship would check in at random throughout the night, and Red Alert would appear briefly fifteen times, but most of the shift would be spent alone in the semi-dark of the bridge. Right now, that suited Cliffjumper’s mood just fine.

He glared at the security monitors. There were Cassettes wandering the halls; good. He liked sharing the night shift with Blaster. The boombox could always be counted on to supply some ridiculously inappropriate song when Cliffjumper was in a foul mood. Which he was most certainly in right now. He could do with some country music, in fact. 

Straightening up in his seat, he scooted it along its track toward the console only to have his foot hit something underneath it. “Sonnuva glitch! Ow.” He bent and peered into the dark seatwell but didn’t see what he’d stubbed his foot on. He hoped whatever it’d been wasn’t important, or Hoist would nag him about fixing it next shift. Ooo, no, wait, that could be fun. Next bridge shift was Hoist and Smokescreen. 

No, bad Minibot. No interfacing while on shift. Not after the time Red Alert had ‘verified’ Prime’s identity during an important negotiations call with Megatron. Megatron had offered concessions in exchange for an encore, but Prowl had still insisted on adding ‘No Interfacing’ to the duty regulations. 

Smiling slightly at the memory, Cliffjumper gave up on getting any closer to the console for the moment. He reached out and keyed into the network. ”Hey, Blaster,” he asked over the comm. line. ”Got anything with a dead dog, three ex-girlfriends, and a rusted Chevrolet?”

*”Aw, mech. That bad a night, huh?”* Blaster’s sympathy didn’t grate on his spark, at least. *”Don’t worry, little red. The Master Blaster’s here to make it aaaaaall better. Gimme a klik to find something for you,”* the boombox told him cheerfully. 

“I’m sure you’ll find me many things,” Cliffjumper drawled, tone alluded heavily to the ‘all better’ comment. It was the on-shift verbal equivalent of a waggled optic ridge and, “Interested?” 

An unexpected EM field-flare of searing _jealousy_ washed over his feet. 

The comm. link closed as the red Minibot shoved himself back in the chair, snapping his knees open to gape between them at the empty space under the console. There was nothing there but the seat-track inlaid in the floor and a dust bunny the size of a human baby. The jealousy at his feet faltered. Embarrassment trickled into it. Apparently Mirage hadn’t meant to turn off his electromagnetic blocker right then. 

“How long have you been waiting down there?” Cliffjumper blurted, looking over his shoulder toward the doors. They were both still closed, and he knew he’d have heard either of them opening. 

For a moment, he thought the spy wasn’t going to answer. What, did he really think Cliffjumper would believe he was imagining things? “Two and a quarter joors,” the noblemech finally admitted. “Huffer kicks harder than you do.”

Just for that, the small Autobot kicked at the empty space again. There was another loud _clang_ of metal on metal, and this time he could see that he really had stubbed his foot on nothing. 

It was satisfying, but it still hurt his foot. “Ow,” Cliffjumper grumbled.

Mirage didn’t make a sound, but Cliffjumper hadn’t expected him to. Spies knew better than to react while on mission. Hiding under a console in the _Ark_ was hardly on the same level as infiltrating the Decepticon base, but a SpecOp operative was a SpecOp operative. It was kind of surprising Mirage had given himself away in the first place. Had the spy done it just to get his attention?

…if this was another attempt at manipulating him, Cliffjumper really was going to dump him. Permanently. Into the ocean, at this rate.

Anger boiled up in the Minibot, and his face set in a frown. He pointedly directed it at the monitors. He was very, very sick of being jerked around. He watched Ramhorn trot through the halls instead of watching the empty space where an infuriating, invisible, and immensely irritating Autobot sat. 

“…I deserved that,” sighed from that empty space eventually. 

“Not talking to you,” Cliffjumper muttered.

The trickle of embarrassment had poured into a pool that filled the seatwell. “I know,” Mirage said quietly, “and I deserve that, too. I’m not asking you to speak -- just listen.” The pool shifted as Mirage moved, and Cliffjumper could feel him rising. The EM field emerged from the depths of the seatwell to kneel between his legs. If embarrassment felt like soldering sparks, the emotion underlying the sparks felt like the sluggish glug of used coolant. “Will you allow me an audience, or am I that unworthy?”

The formal words grated on his nerves. They were a cheese grater of annoyance across his sensor network. The spy had spent months mocking and sniping in that same fragging tone of voice, using those same stilted words, and then came asking to talk about it like _that_? He had learned nothing? Apparently not. Although Cliffjumper didn’t really have a problem with Mirage’s Tower-trained manners, not really, just what he kept doing with them.

Kneeling, Mirage was nearly as tall as Cliffjumper was while sitting. The red Minibot refused to acknowledge that the spy’s face was likely somewhere in front of him. He deliberately looked _through_ the empty space at the monitors. On them he could see Blaster patrolling the corridors toward the bridge, and a flare of fury snapped through Cliffjumper’s circuitry as he recalled Mirage’s contemptuous words about the boombox. Cliffjumper had mistakenly restrained his temper instead of losing it; there was a point where tolerance became being taken advantage of. There had to be a point where an opinion became verbal abuse, and Mirage had crossed that line weeks ago. 

Cliffjumper narrowed his optics at the monitors and pulled his EM field close. He couldn’t hide it completely -- he didn’t have a blocker -- but everyone knew how to pull in their current. It was no different than a human learning to control facial expressions and body language, after all. He didn’t say anything. He’d already said his piece, and if Mirage hadn’t figured out how to talk on his own, then this was a waste of time.

The spy flinched back at the vicious crackle of fury but then leaned forward to follow the red mech’s retreat. To Cliffjumper’s vague surprise, Mirage’s habitually-damped field ballooned out to blatantly offer his systems’ status. Electromagnetic energy pushed outward, trying to mesh with the tight, hostile skin of energy hugging close to red and black armor plating. Cliffjumper’s inbuilt circuit monitors registered the surge of foreign input and triggered under-armor interference. The tiny mechanisms didn’t block his signature, but it did prevent his own circuitry from being influenced by the outside press of someone else’s field. 

Angry, Cliffjumper repelled Mirage’s field instead of allowing it to mesh and join his own. The blue Autobot’s field stopped meekly enough but remained intimately splayed open. It was an offer to read his reactions. Slag, it was practically a plea. Cliffjumper knew that the spy could lie with his body as easily as with words, but the emotions…they could be genuine. 

It was almost comical. Cliffjumper, king of wearing his emotions for all to see, sat in the chair concealing everything he felt. Mirage, frost queen, knelt at his feet with every emotion on display. Funny how they weren’t laughing.

“Cliffjumper.” _Sorrow_ wisped over him, a thin silk layer of cool and grey over the dark sludge gurgling deeper in the spy’s field. Mirage didn’t touch him, but Cliffjumper could feel him slide forward between his legs to get closer. The larger Autobot was very careful about not touching him. Curiously so, in fact. “You don’t have to say anything. Just listen, and don’t…” A hesitation laced through with the sharp spangles of _desperation_ burst out to flick against the Minibot’s chest, the arm resting on the console, his ankles. “…don’t send me away.”

Blue optics remained locked on the monitors. Cliffjumper wasn’t going to give Mirage the satisfaction of reacting. The noblemech couldn’t manipulate his feelings if they weren’t out there to be mishandled.

The gray deepened, a backdrop of depression and sadness making _desperation_ stand out even brighter against the smooth EM field.

The door hissed open behind him, and Blaster walked into to the semi-darkness of the bridge. “Hey, little red!”

“Blaster,” Cliffjumper said, and Primus help him if he even knew what he felt right then. Should he be grateful the boombox had interrupted, or impatient for him to leave again? Between his legs, Mirage had gone silent and still except for the telltale burn of _jealousy_ \-- envy? -- smoldering its way through the spy’s field like a fire creeping up damp wood. “You find that song?”

Blaster could be completely oblivious to someone disliking his music, but he was a Cassette Master. Even if he didn’t typically take Special Operations missions, his Cassettes did. Reading small details was second nature. “No jams with three ex-girlfriends, but I found one with an ex-wife an’ a shotgun. That work for your jones?” And over a quick-connect private comm. line, *”Am I interrupting something, or is there some garbage in here that needs taking out?”*

“Oh, come on. You’ve gotta be kidding me. Humans actually made a song about that?” Cliffjumper shook his head, a reflexive smile lifting his mood a little. *”I…dunno. Check back in a few kliks, okay?”*

“I **know** ,” the boombox said blithely. “Makes me despair for humanity, it really does. You don’t want it, huh?” He passed within a dozen meters of Cliffjumper’s station but didn’t pause. He headed for the other bridge door instead. *”No prob, little red. You let me know how it goes.”*

The red Minibot raised a hand to wave the other Autobot on his way. “I’ll pass. Shotguns aren’t my thing.”

“Gotcha. I’ll keep my optics open!”

When the door closed behind Blaster, the jealous burn finally subsided. “…I do not like him.”

Cliffjumper was well aware of that, thank you very much, and he couldn’t hide the defensive rage that bristled from his armor to poke at Mirage’s EM field. It winced but accepted the silent reprimand. The red Minibot was surprised again as a squirming hot worm of _shame_ writhed through the noblemech in response. Stinging heat wrapped around the invisible mech’s field and braided into emotional chains. The red Minibot stared sightlessly at the monitors, feeling the bird-wing field-flutter of Mirage fighting his own emotions. Cruel tenterhooks of _shame_ twisted the spy.

A hand wrapped around his knee, and the noblemech hunkered down to press the side of an invisible helm into his inner thigh like the mech would hide there. But this was one foe who couldn’t be hidden from, couldn’t be fought against. Mirage tortured himself, wallowing in guilt until, at last, he ceased trying to escape what he’d done. 

Mirage looked up. The red Minibot couldn’t see it, but he could feel the larger Autobot’s helm roll against his thigh. He steadfastly refused to glance downward even as Mirage surrendered. The noblemech’s field peeled out and spread in a rippling tide over red armor, flinging wide open like the larger Autobot had opened up his chest and closed Cliffjumper inside. It left Mirage totally vulnerable. A whole mech, submitted for Cliffjumper’s inspection. The congealed emotion under the surface guilt oozed up, chasing the shame like a gluey, sinister shadow. It glugged upward, thick and sour until Cliffjumper could nearly taste it. 

He suddenly found a word to put to it: _remorse._

“I don’t like him,” the spy said, quiet and honest. “He makes you smile even when you’re unhappy. Even…even when **I’ve** made you unhappy, he can still find silly songs that make you forget me.” _Regret_ stabbed, deadly as a knife slamming home through _remorse_ , but the blade was turned on Mirage. “They all do. I,” the spy’s intakes hitched, the confession tearing free of his pride one syllable at a time. “I…tried…to turn…to turn you…against them, but they…they kept giving you…giving you reasons t-to smile.” The helm turned, burrowing into Cliffjumper’s thigh. “I’m the one you should turn against!”

Stated so bluntly, all the pretty mannerisms stripped away and the pretense gone, Mirage’s actions were laid out plainly before the noblemech’s own optics. All the crimes came winging back to roost, crowding bitter words at the base of his throat in a choking, painful mass. He cringed in utter disgrace, field whorling in on itself with self-inflicted punishment. The painstaking honesty dug up words the noblemech frantically tried to deny to himself, but he couldn’t. Cliffjumper felt the way Mirage forced himself to say them out loud. 

“I -- Primus, I knew it was wrong every time I said anything. Every time I looked down upon you as common, you were more noble than I. I’m a disgrace to my upbringing. I would never have dared -- I couldn’t -- the Towers’ social circles would have **ostracized** mechs behaving as I have! My honor is rust and scrap. I’ve…I’ve ground it down to the bare metal with my own behavior. I **know** I can’t control you. I don’t have the right to control you, no one has that right, and trying to do it makes me -- I attacked you. I t-tried to manipulate you, said things about the other Autobots…” _Shame_ spread like a flash fire, burning there and gone again over Mirage’s field and leaving prickling black-char _remorse_ to clog the mech’s intakes. “You never repeated any of it. Oh, Primus, if you’d repeated half of the poison I spewed in your audios, Prime would have pitched me out on my skidplate. I tried to turn you against them, and you wouldn’t -- I’m no better than a Decepticon.”

 _Shame_ and _regret_ and the sick sucking undertow of _disgust_ churned through the spy’s EM field. It funneled the agonizing confession straight back into the noblemech’s spark, where it couldn’t be escaped. Not anymore, at least. How long had this been building? Cliffjumper had given his ultimatum twelve days ago, but the situation had been coming to a head for months. Worse, the Minibot hadn’t realized how insidious the attempted manipulation had been. He hadn’t realized, in his inability to see the subtleties, just what Mirage had been trying to do.

Cliffjumper had only wanted to be able to interpret Mirage’s elitist behavior. Only now did he discover that trying to change himself, trying not to be offended so easily and understand the Towers mech more, was the worst possible thing he could have done.

He stared blindly at the monitors. There was no one between his legs according to his optics, but all his other senses told another story. Same with their farce of a relationship: he’d put everything on the surface, taking everything he saw as truth, but his optics had lied. The truth was in what hadn’t been seen.

He had to clench his hands, one on his thigh and the other on the console, to stop himself from stroking the helm bent into his lap. At the same time, it took joint-tensing effort to restrain himself from pulling away and shouting his sudden, pounding rage right in the invisible mech’s face. A whining keen full of strained static came from Mirage as the Minibot’s field blazed furiously. Even skimmed tight to red armor, the surge of unadulterated rage and betrayal flamed. Cliffjumper might have actually been less hurt if Mirage had actually joined the Decepticons. Decepticons, at least, could be expected to stuff his spark in a shredder out of no more than jealousy.

Cliffjumper didn’t _understand_ , and that made it even more awful. The rage coating the red Minibot like a second paintjob poorly covered bewilderment and a vague sensation of guilt, and Mirage cringed all the more to think that the small Autobot might somehow blame himself. His actions were so, so petty out in the open. So stupid, and so vile, and exposing them to scar Cliffjumper’s hard-earned trust shoved unavoidable, self-directed _hate_ into Mirage’s festering EM field. 

Under the loathing, without the mask of aloof dignity, the spy’s core signature shrank into something tiny and ashamed. He was afraid, desperately afraid of the consequences millions of years of war and society games had allowed him to dodge. Action with minimal repercussion had snowballed out of control, and now here he was: kneeling at the feet of someone who demanded he face the music he’d written one mind-frag at a time. 

The score was written in uncompromising black and white. It made him shake to play, fine tremors accompanying inexcusable words. The hand became an arm, hugging Cliffjumper’s knee as if Mirage feared he’d be kicked away at any moment, and Cliffjumper could feel it _all_. 

And it hurt.

The voice speaking against his armor was thick enough to be almost unintelligible. “I’m no better, I’m not. I betrayed you. I-I deserve worse than your anger, I know that. Cliffjumper, I -- ”

The bridge door hissed open. Mirage’s word stopped with an audible _click_ of his mouth snapping shut. Cliffjumper jumped in his seat like it’d scorched him. 

Wide optics turned to see, well, exactly whom he expected. “Red Alert!”

“Hmm? Yes?” Distracted, the Security Director strode toward the secondary monitor station. “Is there a problem?” A secure comm. line pinged, reception only, letting the Minibot know the Lamborghini was not nearly as distracted as he acted. 

That figured, actually. A quick glance around the bridge took in the surveillance cameras in every corner. Red Alert linked at the processor level when downloading from Teletraan 1. It wouldn’t surprise Cliffjumper at all if Red Alert had been monitoring the whole conversation. The spy might not have avoided all of the _Ark_ ’s sensors. The Autobots who’d been on duty when the invisible mech snuck into the seatwell had probably let him, in the spirit of letting him try to make up with Cliffjumpmer. So the not-really-distracted question was probably a real offer to remove Mirage if the red Minibot did indeed think him a problem. 

It was a very tempting offer at the moment. He could…send Mirage away. He could rebuff the mech. He could shout at him and scream all his feelings loose, or even just leave it to Red Alert. He could hide behind the other Autobots until the blue noblemech finally gave up on whatever pit-slag game he was playing. Maybe he should expose the mech for the backbiting double-faced creep he apparently truly was, and the others could deal with him on their own. He’d been so stuck on trying to understand why the noblemech was lashing out that he’d somehow made the blue mech’s behavior his own problem. 

Yeah, well, Mirage was a big mech. It might be time for Cliffjumper to step out of this particular soap opera. Let the Mirage melodrama continue without him. Why did he feel responsible for Mirage’s venomous little comments, anyway? 

Eventually, it would stop hurting so much to know how badly he’d been taken advantage of. It would. He was a bull-headed trigger-happy Minibot with an attitude bigger than his frame, and someday he’d hop into berth with someone who actually would interact with him on the level instead of play mental games on him. Relationships weren’t supposed to be minefields.

He in-vented a deep breath, gathering scattered thoughts into a decision.

Mirage rose silently to his feet, and one knee settled onto the small triangle of seat exposed between Cliffjumper’s thighs. Fingertips slid up the Minibot’s jawline, trembling just enough to be felt, and cupped his face. Not trying to move him or even hold his head in place, but there. Holding without the slightest pressure. Hands barely cradled the snapping, confused crackle of Cliffjumper’s EM field. Still cloaked and invisible to scans, Mirage accepted the hostile sting of the smaller mech’s field and pushed himself open in return.

 _Regret. Remorse. Shame. Guilt. Sorrow._ The jarring spangles of _desperation,_ and above all: _fear._

Air puffed soundlessly out of vents again as lips touched the very corner of Cliffjumper’s mouth. The Minibot stared straight ahead, still as stone. His mouth tightened, lips thinning to a grim line under narrow, angry cobalt optics. Really? Mirage thought a kiss would make it all better? If it weren’t so difficult to unclench his jaw against the fiery bitterness suddenly seething in the aperture valve of his intake, Cliffjumper would seriously give the noblemech a piece of his mind for the ridiculousness of that notion. This was not something that a few emotional moments and a kiss could solve.

An invisible head withdrew as if to study his reaction, and the chair creaked in response to an otherwise undetectable flinch for his scowl. The spy angled his head to the side and returned, pushing earnest submission through his field. A ghostly strength swelled: _courage_. The lips returned as well, angled cross-wise, and Mirage began peppering incredibly small kisses across gray lips. Progress was slow as he barely moved with each whisper of contact. 

Cliffjumper’s mouth remained in a thin line, lips burning with a coat of _anger_. He would not be manipulated again. 

Something dark and cold sapped the flicker of bravery from underneath when the Minibot’s aggravated expression didn’t lighten: _despair._ But at the same time…

Everywhere their plating met, a deep, shivering glow of _need_ lit. The spy kissed it, tiny firefly blooms of heat working across Cliffjumper’s lips as if trying to replace the anger one spot-patch at a time. Mirage’s lips lingered, not attempting to engage Cliffjumper’s mouth but unable to stay away once he’d started. Every kiss brushed into the Minibot’s field. The touches physically breached it in the way Cliffjumper had previously denied the spy’s EM field, and the Minibot felt the pull as Mirage almost frantically sought the red Autobot’s emotions. 

They earned a wince as the spy tasted the burning, wounded _anger_. It seeped like acid through closed lips with every repeated kiss, filling Mirage’s mouth until the blue Autobot drank of his own actions. He didn’t stop. Cliffjumper could feel the twisting chains of _shame_ coil tighter with every miniscule peck, but the spy didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t.

No, kisses couldn’t make this better. At the moment, however, Mirage didn’t have much more to offer. Even through the anger simmering like a fire spreading under his armor, Cliffjumper had to recognize that. And he wondered what would drive the noblemech to do this here, go through the effort and humiliation of hiding and confessing this right now, if not something more than lust.

Hope made the pain worse, and Cliffjumper tried not to feel it. He didn’t want to feel it. He was too cynical to feel it.

It hurt.

There wasn’t a single sound or movement to give Mirage away. The hands were barely touching Cliffjumper’s face, and there wasn’t enough pressure behind the kisses to do more than skim the Minibot’s lips. It was up to Cliffjumper to decide what Red Alert saw.

…oh, what the slag. He didn’t need other Autobots to fight his battles for him. When he ejected Mirage from his life, he’d do it himself and probably put the blue mech’s head through the door on the way out. 

“Nah,” he said a little stiffly, trying not to refocus his optics or speak differently. Every sense but vision insisted there was a large mech _right_ in his face, but he refused to move his head back or stop watching the monitors. Blaster was following Steeljaw down one of the corridors now. “Nothing wrong, Red Alert.”

Distracted optics turned toward him for a moment. “Alright.” The comm. line stayed open anyway. As always, the Security Director knew more than he let on. Cliffjumper turned his head a little to glance over in his direction, but Red Alert had linked in to another duty station to begin a new download. 

The motion, small as it was, took Cliffjumper’s mouth out of immediate reach. Mirage took the opportunity to kiss his cheek instead. Again, the touch was almost too light to be felt, more of a caress of electromagnetic energy over the Minibot’s extremely unfriendly field. It was also entirely chaste. The _need_ continued to spread warmth across Cliffjumper’s field one infinitesimal point of contact at a time, gradually building up a sweet blush of desire that…had nothing to do with interfacing, strangely. Lips painted the spy’s fervent craving in tiny brushstrokes, but Cliffjumper’s temperature gauge didn’t even waver. Not-quite-pressed against the Minibot as he was, Mirage’s temperature stayed completely level, too.

Whatever else Mirage felt, the _need_ radiating above his darker, more depressing emotions wasn’t lust. Whatever game the noble was trying to play didn’t have anything to do with the berth. 

“Hmph.” The Minibot turned forward again, grouchy and knowing it. He hated not knowing what was going on, but he was also too stubborn to stop pretending that everything was okay. Nothing to see here, Red Alert, go on with duties as per usual. Move along, move along. “How’s the download going tonight?”

The invisible mouth seized the opportunity. The second gray lips came back within range, soft nibbles moved across the bottom lip. Cliffjumper couldn’t talk with his lips tight and disapproving. They had to loosen to speak, and Mirage did everything he could to take advantage of that concession.

Something shot a thrill straight through Cliffjumper’s spark, and it took him a moment to separate enough to realize it was his own emotion.

“Everything is on schedule,” Red Alert said, busy inputting the next set of passcodes into the other console.

“That’s…good.” 

Mirage paused, ventilation locked down in breathless anticipation, until Cliffjumper didn’t seem about to continue. Then the invisible lips were back. The rest of the spy’s body slowly descended, covering Cliffjumper in cautious plate-by-plate movements that didn’t so much as clink their armor together. Mirage’s head ended up below Cliffjumper’s, his mouth reaching for the Minibot’s from below in a constant, nearly-inaudible scrape of metal-on-metal. Invisible kisses invited his participation, nibbling and lipping more at his EM field than his mouth. The light strokes went so far as a darting lick at the middle of Cliffjumper’s bottom lip, just barely brushing his upper lip as if not quite daring to deepen the kisses further. He seemed to want permission to go further, or maybe he wanted Red Alert to leave the bridge first.

The Minibot sat there and endured, emotions miring into a tangled mess. He stared through nothing -- and someone -- at the monitors. Red Alert’s occasional comments from across the bridge got grunts or brief words in return, and every time, Mirage froze into a waiting statue. Waiting for Cliffjumper to expose him, or trying not to give himself away by occupying the Minibot’s mouth at the wrong moment and muffling anything?

It was less like being seduced as some…bizarre dramatic scenario out of a warped dream. If their relationship suddenly transformed into a movie, the battered bridge chair would be a throne, and Cliffjumper would be the powerful king standing judgment. That would make Mirage the supplicant pleading for mercy by offering himself in exchange for his crimes.

Which kind of put an interesting twist on what exactly the spy was doing here tonight. Had the spy remained invisible because he didn’t want to be caught, or was it for genuine emotion? This wasn’t a fantasy. There was a vast difference between a petitioner going through the motions because he felt obligated to by outside forces, or shame so great he pushed his face into the ground because he couldn’t bear to look at himself. Why was the ever-so-gentle mouth there, closing on Cliffjumper’s bottom lip and sucking with hardly any pressure? Was it because Mirage still played his games, or because of the sludgy, horribly chilled _remorse_ dripping from his EM field?

The other bridge door slid open, and a jumping blare of music preceded Blaster skipping in -- dancing? With Rewind? What? Cliffjumper’s head whipped around so fast he clipped Mirage’s helm with his own. The _clang_ was covered by the music, however, and the two mechs dancing together didn’t seem to notice.

“Mechs! Check this action **out** , you’re gonna love it!” There was hip waggling. Why was there hip waggling? Bemused, both Autobots currently visible on the bridge watched Cassette Master and Cassette spice up an already surreal night with saucy hip pops. “Guess what kinda dance this is!” 

“I don’t want to know,” Red Alert and Cliffjumper chorused in identically dry voices, because they knew where this was leading. That was a very attractive red aft bopping about, but they had better things to do than watch it at the moment. Although that was a close call. 

“It’s a form of dance classified as Latin -- “ Rewind started on one of his random facts.

“Don’t wa~ant to kno~ow,” Red Alert sing-songed, pulling his link out of the console and heading for the opposite door. “Bu~usy!” Rewind deflated a little, but Blaster was too into the music to notice someone trying to harsh his squee. Red Alert passed that red aft without a second look. He had some kind of mystical Security Director power, because Cliffjumper was having some difficulty tearing his optics away.

Difficulty, that was, until _jealousy_ all but slapped him in the face. The field-buzzing hands cupping his face smoothed downward to trace his neck cables with not-there fingertips that eventually settled on his shoulders. They stayed there, massaging lightly at the joints tucked beneath armor. Mirage redoubled his efforts, kissing down his cheek and up his jaw until he got to the tip of his chin. And then down the front of his neck. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be patrolling?” Cliffjumper asked a tad bit sharper than strictly necessary, but he was having some trouble reining in the automatic urge to lift his chin. 

Blaster’s smile never faltered, but his voice on the comm. was concerned. *”You alright over there?”*

*”Fine. Just...need some alone time.”* Even over internal comm., he sounded strained. It was painfully obvious that ‘alone time’ wasn’t a euphemism for interfacing. This wasn’t that kind of strain, tragically, and Blaster’s music skipped to something quieter in instant sympathy. Everyone knew there was more than met the eye to the soap opera-esque relationship those two ‘bots had, and it seemed things were coming to a head tonight, one way or another. That didn’t mean things would end well. Not every story got a happy ending.

“Right, right, we’re movin’,” the Cassette Master said. He herded his Cassette toward the door. “Bit-bot, you got any info on line dancing? Always wanted to try gettin’ the whole gang into one dance.”

“Oh!” The Cassette brightened visibly. “Of course. Line dancing is a form of -- “

The bridge door closed, cutting off another of Rewind’s factual monologues, and Cliffjumper slowly drew in a deep vent of air. The mouth working down his neck hesitated fractionally, probably wondering if the Minibot would end things now, but Cliffjumper only returned to watching the monitors. Whatever else happened tonight, it wouldn’t sit right with the red mech if he didn’t give Mirage a chance to make amends. He wasn’t about to let the spy try and ‘face him tonight, but so far…this didn’t seem to be sexual. Maybe? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t be sure. But he would never _be_ sure unless he allowed the mech to continue.

Call it giving Mirage enough rope to hang himself with.

Cliffjumper’s optics narrowed again, staring resolutely at the screens. He’d said he didn’t want to talk to or see the spy until there was an apology. That required words, and so help him, if Mirage thought admitting his wrongs was enough, he had another thing coming.

The spy pushed another surge of _remorse_ through his field as _jealousy_ got chained down by a renewed burn of _shame_. The frustrating weave of emotions made Cliffjumper dizzy, and not in a good way. Mirage didn’t seem to know what he was feeling at any one time, but none of the emotions were pleasant to experience second-hand. Yet the churning mass of feeling had an awareness to them, now that Cliffjumper’s initial leap of anger had subsided enough to notice. Mirage at least seemed to be acknowledging emotions existed. He didn’t quite seem to know what to do with them, but this was the most emotional Cliffjumper had ever seen -- er, not seen -- the noblemech. Dignified detachment seemed to have taken a temporary holiday.

The red Minibot still wasn’t sure what was meant by the trail of kisses being laid down his altmode’s roof, now. The blooms of warm _need_ were more obvious but also more confusing. Hands flattened and stroked from his shoulders down the sides of his body. Mirage’s mouth lingered longer every time his lips made contact with red plating. The chair shifted slightly as the knee between Cliffjumper’s thighs slid away, lowering slowly back to the floor. The spy followed suit just as slowly, working his way down the Minibot’s body. Lips encountered the edges of windshield and windows and followed them, steamed the glass in short, panting vents between kisses. Tiny, sliding kisses, one right after another, pressure barely lifting before it returned. Blossoming spots of yearning fought to pacify Cliffjumper’s simmering temper, and the dark tide of _guilt_ spat droplets of _desperation_ and _fear_ every time the Minibot shifted in the chair.

The invisible helm lifted, and for a moment Cliffjumper lost track of the spy. He found him again quickly, or rather, Mirage’s mouth found the inside of his elbow. Fingers that had settled on small black hips disappeared for a second and reappeared against holding gently onto the Minibot’s forearm. Finally, a bit of force was applied. The hands tugged, just slightly insistant, at Cliffjumper’s arm. Not demanding, but asking that the Minibot drop his hand off the console and into his lap.

Gray lips turned down in a frown, and he stiffened in his seat. _No._

The tugging immediately stopped, and the spy’s mouth left _sorrow_ and _shame_ in its wake. Message sent and received: Cliffjumper didn’t trust Mirage as far as he could throw him. He was allowing the blue Autobot this chance, but cooperation was really too much to assume at this point. If Mirage wanted that, he could fragging well ask.

A nauseating downpull of _regret_ and _fear_ rattled the spy so deeply it actually sent a cold spike of sickness through Cliffjumper’s tanks. It was gone a moment later, however, and the Minibot blinked and shivered in response, trying to interpret what he’d just felt. He shivered again for a different reason as that invisible mouth turned to single-mindedly mapping the surface area of Cliffjumper’s forearm. 

Lips softly glided and nibbled over his elbow joint. Fingertips danced over his plating, practically worshipping every square centimeter, and both lips and palms stroked along armor seams. They went back the way they came and paused to discover the joint all over again. Finely crafted fingers were barely narrow enough to dip into the gaps opened up when Cliffjumper almost involuntarily relaxed enough to stop clamping his armor battle-tight. They played on wires and sought the sensor network on the underside of his armor, pushing Mirage’s EM field further into Cliffjumper’s.

It felt oddly tentative. All of this was, but the contact focused Cliffjumper enough to really notice how _off_ Mirage was acting. The push didn’t have any of the self-assurance he was used to. Mirage had never been aggressive, at least not in comparison to Cliffjumper, but the noblemech was normally so confident that the contact felt queerly submissive in comparison. The invisible spy’s EM field ventured into him like a shy mech lacing his fingers around his own. Mirage’s kisses became even tinier, angling until the spy’s head was below his arm even as the noblemech’s fingers continued to explore and caress whatever they could reach. The field emitted by them wasn’t invasive; it flowed into him and shimmered against his circuitry in a nonverbal…plea, almost. A sense that the invisible spy wanted him to feel what he felt so badly that he’d merge his field with Cliffjumper’s in any way allowed. 

Instead of feeling pressured, Cliffjumper felt strangely magnanimous accepting the touches. Just the knowledge that he could reject them, that _Mirage_ knew he could reject them, steadied his turbulent frame of mind. 

Mirage abandoned one arm and immediately turned to the other. The Minibot controlled a jerking flinch when hands and a mouth abruptly glossed fingertips and a tongue down the plating. The invisible spy was certainly thorough with his efforts, that was for certain. There was something disconcerting about knowing there was someone all but crawling into his lap, yet flicking a glance down showed no one. If he hadn’t had experience interfacing Mirage while the noblemech was invisible, he wouldn’t have been able to control his automatic reaction. When something touched a mech out of nowhere, it was machine-level instinct to get away or lash out. When interfacing a mech notorious for appearing out of nowhere because, hey, his special ability was invisibility, a mech learned to throttle his first instinct. Nothing quite killed the mood of a good frag like struggling to escape or trying to punch his partner.

So he didn’t look down at all. If he didn’t look, he could believe his other sensors. He watched Blaster race Eject down the corridor, moving from one monitor to the other. Red Alert progressed across the monitors far more slowly, pace measured. A hot exhale of air against his recessed wrist joint caused a faint twitch of his hand, but he forced his fingers to stay relaxed on his thigh, and he didn’t look. 

Hands cupped his forearm and dragged down, sweeping his plating with tingles of _desperation_. Mirage proffered the bottomless tarry gulch of _remorse_ like evidence brought by a frantic supplicant to an angry god, opening his ugly inner workings to judging optics. But the smooth grey sadness on the surface of the spy’s EM field lightened one shade at a time as the kliks passed and Cliffjumper didn’t push the noblemech away. A white purity kindled impossibly slow, daring to glimmer at the very edges of the leaden field: _hope_.

Mirage was definitely on his knees by now, because a rain of pinprick kisses fell upon Cliffjumper’s hand. There was still no strength behind the touches, but the noblemech’s mouth engulfed every finger from above, sucking and nibbling and coaxing, trying to convince the Minibot to offer a finger, just one, for him to lavish attention on. His chin, then his cheek, pressed into Cliffjumper’s thigh as he angled his head this way and that to reach as much of the red Autobot’s hand as possible. He licked, testing, and nuzzled gratefully when the forefinger drew up just a bit in implicit permission. _Gratitude_ lapped in long, appreciative swathes over Cliffjumper’s _wariness_ , the noblemech’s tongue probing under the bent knuckle and curling to taste him. 

Too much force put behind the eager licking, however, and the finger flattened out with a zing of disapproval through the Minibot’s field. The bright glint of _hope_ faded away like a hydraulic system losing pressure. A shadow of a whimper came from the invisible mech, and Cliffjumper felt Mirage’s helm duck further. 

This time he targeted Cliffjumper’s knees. The thighs got their fair share of devout caresses, unseen hands meticulously trying to appease the red mech’s still-hot anger with tapered fingers and sensitive palms that endlessly yielded rolling waves of _remorse regret shame_. Kisses scattered before them, headed downward.

Cliffjumper didn’t even jump when the bridge door opened again. He cast a single glance back, but Red Alert only gave him an inscrutable look in passing. The Security Director walked over to uplink again and ignored him. Them, really. What one mech on duty knew, all the Autobots on duty knew. It was a security issue, privacy be slagged. Cliffjumper was vaguely surprised he hadn’t been called out on it, yet. Red Alert had a tendency toward being uptight.

Mirage didn’t seem to care that this edged on breaking regulations. He didn’t stop his ardent touches. Butterfly petting from the very tips of his fingertips traded off with the grazing brush of his lips over every component he could reach. The smaller Autobot’s joint relaxed as the persistent but almost reverent groping teased tight armor loose enough to open gaps. Oh, those gaps. Mirage pushed his face into the reluctant opening between knee joint and thigh, tongue delving in to wrap as best it could around cables and wires, squeezing and licking. Fingers dug in, not _quite_ courageous enough to exert pressure and open the gap more. They eased back out obediently when Cliffjumper didn’t take his suggestion. Lesson learned, there. 

The noblemech stuck his tongue under the Minibot’s thigh plating and lipped at the edge, biting gently and rubbing his tongue back and forth over it. He in-vented, breathing in Cliffjumper’s EM field through his mouth as if to taste him. The acidic tange of betrayal went down in a gagging swallow, and another hushed sound of misery came from him. After almost a klik of gulping down consequences, one of the noblemech’s hands ventured to the other knee. 

The red Minobot’s ventilation system didn’t even hitch. He continued to watch the monitors, perfectly composed except for the anger communicated by the grim line of his mouth. Red Alert exited the bridge as quietly as he’d entered, and Cliffjumper didn’t expect to see Blaster again. The Cassettes might peek in from a repair shaft for security’s sake, but Blaster had more tact than to come back tonight. That left the two Autobots alone in the semi-dark, lit mostly by the bank of monitors and Teletraan 1’s download status bars. A casual observer would only see one mech, however. Even a close observer might not notice anything. Cliffjumper was sitting in the chair more casually than normal with his legs spread like that, but Bumblebee sprawled all the time. The seats weren’t really made for Minibots. The support poles adjusted up or down, but the seats themselves were rather large. Unless the observer typically kept track of how the Minibots compensated for that, the unusual way Cliffjumper sat would pass unnoticed. 

Other than the spread legs, he looked startlingly unaffected by Mirage. One hand laid flat on the console, and the other rested on his thigh, fingers slightly apart. His feet barely touched the floor, but they didn’t move. Not even when every piece of metal and casing in his knee had received its due in kisses and touching, and Mirage’s mouth began sliding down again.

Down…

 _Regret._

That talented tongue for once focused on something other than thinly-veiled insults or misleading statements perfectly polite on the surface and pure poison underneath. Cliffjumper had to appreciate it even as the reminder fueled his anger once more. The gray and black struts of the Minibot’s shins were delicately traced, Mirage’s mouth wandering down every line but always heading downward.

 _Remorse._

So many cables and transformation points. The areas without an extra altmode layer had armor, but the sensors were closer to the surface. Mirage sought them out. Unhurried but urgent, his lips found them and…the press of those lips both were and weren’t kisses anymore. They moved, almost saying something, almost scraping up enough courage, and still they went downward.

 _Shame._

By the time Mirage switched to Cliffjumper’s other leg, the words were just about audible. They pushed against the struts, pulled out of the noblemech’s pride one by one, and Cliffjumper could feel how it hurt to wrench them free.

 _Guilt._

“…all my fault,” whispered into the metal. “All of it. This is all my fault, and I accept the blame. I deserved to be -- I deserve worse than anything you could do to me, and I accept that. You are entirely right to refuse to speak or look at me, and I do not…” Another bitter swallow of unvarnished truth, and the words kissed down Cliffjumper’s shin. “I do not expect anything. It’s entirely up to you how you choose to deal with me, and I will accept your decision no matter what you decide.”

 _Sorrow._

“My honor is nothing,” Mirage said quietly, gently smoothing his hands around one of the Minibot’s disproportionately large feet. All the altmode mass made Minibots look ungainly until there was suddenly tiremarks on a mech’s face because he’d gotten his aft kicked in by those same feet. The red armor pulsed Cliffjumper’s field, righteous _anger_ and now _unease_ , and Mirage’s hands stung as the Minibot’s EM field snapped at him. He bent his head deferentially, and anger-narrowed optics suddenly blinked wide to stare in blind wonder in the direction of the monitors as lips pressed resolutely to the red. “After what I did, my honor is **less** than nothing, but it is all I have left. Whatever pathetic remnant I have, I forfeit to you,” Mirage surrendered formally against his feet. 

_Desperation._

“My honor, my possessions, my body, my pride…my spark is in your hands, Cliffjumper. It is yours. It’s a paltry compensation for what I put you through, but I beg you take it and me as recompense. It is your choice how you extract satisfaction from me, but I swear that I fully submit to your will.” Mirage’s hands shook slightly, and his voice rose to a harsh whisper as if trying to convince the red mech that he spoke honestly, for once. “My word is worthless, I know that, but only through obedience may I regain myself.”

And above all: _fear._

The shower of kisses had become just one extended press of Mirage’s mouth. The spy huddled to the floor in the seatwell, bowed before him. “I will present myself to Prowl if you order me to,” the noblemech said thickly, voice static-laced and wavering slightly with released emotion. “The things I said…I may not have committed treason, but it was purposeful sabotage of shipboard relations. I intended to manipulate your mind and set you against the rest of the crew. Prowl will mete out justice for my actions in your stead, if you will it. Or…or you may command me to confess before the crew, publically or privately. You may -- I mean to say, it is your right to sell my belongings or give them away as it please you. I will serve you in any way you wish, or stay as far away as you like. It is your decision to make, and I will abide by your choice.”

Mirage hesitated, and Cliffjumper couldn’t stop the ringing in his audios. Sheer astonishment threatened to send his processors into shut-down, and his sensor grid sent a barrage of alarms and sensor ghosts in response. This was absurd. Unbelievable. Primus, how was he supposed to handle this slag?! 

_Fear_ jolted through the larger Autobot’s EM field, an electric shock of emotion that spat against Cliffjumper’s armor, and the Minibot found he’d stopped his vents to hear. What could cause more fear than judgment or -- or -- what the frag was that even called? Being afraid of official consequences, yes, of course, that made sense. Stated openly, phrased that way, Mirage had admitted to what amounted to a war crime. It was the kind of thing undercover agents seeded through the Decepticon ranks when given a chance. Prowl really would put him through a trial. He’d probably stand the spy up before an officer tribunal to mete out punishment. 

But…what, subjugation? Indentured servitude? What kind of fragged up place had the Towers _been_ , anyway?!

“I have no right to even make this request, but I find I cannot help myself,” the noblemech said, voice dropping to a low murmur again as the words unwillingly dragged out of him. “Allow me to attempt to apologize to you.”

Blue and white materialized out of the darkness of the seatwell, catching Cliffjumper’s optics, and when he looked down there was a mech groveling at his feet. “Please,” Mirage pleaded quietly, looking up just enough to meeting his optics, and naked _despair_ made the blue Autobot’s EM field a sucking black hole, “let me apologize. I do not deserve the opportunity, but may I at least say the words?” 

Cliffjumper’s EM field exploded out from his armor in a dynamite burst that deflated before a single emotion could be picked out of the screaming crowd. It went dull and flat as quickly as it’d gone out of control, and the Minibot could only stare. 

Mirage winced as the eruption cracked over him like a whip. He waited a moment. When no denial seemed forthcoming, he grabbed the lack as permission. He reached out and gathered Cliffjumper’s other foot closer, until they were both in his hands and nearly in his lap. His neck bent, and he cleared his vents of whatever scraps of pride he still clung to.

“Cliffjumper, I humbly beg your pardon for my behavior. I accept all blame for what I have done. I cannot express to you the depth on my sincerity, and I sorely regret the damage and stress I inadver -- “ The formal phrasing hitched, and the noblemech’s field reflected how much effort it took to right himself. “ -- intentionally caused you. To my shame, I cannot correct this error through monetary payment or other physical compensation. I can only hope that you will accept my submission and eventually be completely satisfied with my efforts to repair the breech in crew relations my cruel actions and words have created. This was a grave mistake on my part, and I am very embarrassed by my poor judgment.”

Vents creaking closed, Mirage bent even further to touch his forehelm to the Minibot’s feet, and _need_ clawed through the darker emotions to bloom over red armor. The hands holding Cliffjumper’s tires dug desperate fingers into the rubber. “I am most profoundly ashamed of what I have done to you. It was both careless and thoughtless, and I must beg your pardon. I will continue to do so, as often as you permit me. I will take whatever steps you deem necessary to earn my return to your good graces, if that is something that is even possible. It is my most fervent desire to be allowed that redemption. I have no excuse -- there can **be** no excuse. I know what I deserve, and I only ask that you please listen and hear my apology. In time, I hope that you might accept it.”

There was a moment of dead silence. Mirage appeared ready to stay bowed in debased subservience until told to rise. 

Cliffjumper had basically frozen with shock so deep it’d stalled out several of his processors.

“You pit-slag recycled tin **can** ,” the red Autobot said at last, and Mirage visibly controlled a flinch. The sudden blast of _fury_ radiating from the Minibot didn’t really help the noblemech stay calm, but then the feet he clutched were kicking at him, and he automatically brought his arms up in defense. “You -- you **idiot**! Circuit-tweaked, drone-fragging, glitched-up **Towerling**. What by Primus’ sky-spanning skidplate did they **teach** you slagging nobles?!” 

A hand flailed under the console until it caught one of Mirage’s raised arms, and it wasn’t Mirage’s place to deny the Minibot anything. Cliffjumper dragged him out of the seatwell and practically up into his lap, and the noblemech braced himself for a blow. The kicking hadn’t been forceful, but the red Autobot’s fists were formidable weapons. _Acceptance_ and _resignation_ pushed through his EM field, submissively rippling meek wavelets against Cliffjumper’s looming _rage_.

Instead, he found himself crushed in an embrace that nearly bent his shoulder axle. A startled, undignified squawk squeezed out of him. “Cliffjumper!”

“You’re the stupidest sonnuva motherboard this side of the galaxy,” the Minibot barked in his audio, and Mirage blinked, utterly bewildered as a hand pressed his helm under Cliffjumper’s chin as if the red Autobot would protect him. “How the frag did you get through millions of years of war without learning how to just plain spit out ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t of done it, and I won’t do it again’?”

“I…I rarely associate with anyone outside of an official capacity..?” Mirage sounded only mildly confused, while his swirling EM field made it clear he hadn’t a clue what was going on. He obviously had no idea what was going on, or why the Minibot was reacting this way.

If this wasn’t the strangest thing Cliffjumper had ever heard -- or done, for that matter -- he was going to eat one of his own guns. He tucked the noblemech closer and gritted his teeth as he wrestled his temper down. True enough, the blue Autobot really never spoke with anyone outside of the Autobot military structure, at least not until Earth had forced him into constant close proximity with the same crew members day after day. And, well, Mirage was part and parcel of Special Operations’ oh-so-special passive-aggressive methodology. Apologies weren’t really a done thing among the operatives, so far as Cliffjumper could tell.

Okay, Cliffjumper: transform into Awkward Social Teacher alternate mode.

“Are you sorry?” he asked firmly, because fraggit, that was an important starting point no matter how muddled this had become.

Mirage managed to stiffen even further. “Of course. I apologize for what I -- “

He shook the noblemech by the shoulders until the blue Autobot shut up. “That’s not what I asked. I didn’t tell you to come find me just when you were ready to apologize. I’ve heard you apologize before, and lemme tell you, I’ve never heard emptier words. I told you to come find me when you were ready to **talk** , and I didn’t mean about what I was gonna do to you. If I’d wanted to do something to you about all the slag you’ve been pulling, I’d have punched you.”

That percolated slowly down through the noblemech’s confusion. However long it’d taken him to compose that ritualized monologue, he’d had twelve days to stew in his own guilt over it. He’d apparently forgotten that Cliffjumper was _not_ a noble, had never even been _inside_ the Towers, and got about half of the real meaning behind his formal manners. This wasn’t about possibly treasonous actions that might end with Mirage being brought up on charges. It wasn’t about the other Autobots at all. It was about what was between the two of them, and only them.

As difficult as Cliffjumper found Mirage to read, sometimes he had to remember that Mirage found it just as difficult to read him in return. They were both Cybertronians, but they’d come from different social worlds.

“Are you sorry?” the smaller Autobot asked again.

Mirage shifted, uncomfortable. “I…yes.”

“Say it,” Cliffjumper ordered sternly.

It felt blunt and wrong, somehow, without all the flowery words couching the sentiment. Childish, as the humans would say. Simple, as the nobles had said. But simple took away all the masks and defenses and formalities, and that’s probably why he felt so exposed saying it. Still, he _owed_ the Minibot, and…he truly was. So he choked out, “I am s-sorry.” 

The _anger_ burning in Cliffjumper’s EM field cut away like a light switching off, replaced by a gentler humming of roused temper felt through the arms wrapped around him. Mirage nearly straightened up in surprise. Cliffjumper firmly hugged him back against the red chestplate, however, and Mirage numbly let him.

A sense of sadness laced through the Minibot’s field. The noblemech’s reaction…was forgiveness such a complicated thing? Really?

“I’m sorry,” Mirage repeated, numbness gradually lifting. He marveled at the hands holding him, a glittering beam of _wonder_ briefly showing from under _remorse regret shame_. “I am, Cliffjumper. I cannot -- I can’t tell you how sorry I am.” 

“Good. Will you do it again?”

“No!” Appalled, the blue Autobot almost succeeded in pushing away. “Never!” 

The Minibot almost let him go, too, but seized blue helm vents in his hands and yanked him forward a second before the noblemech broke free. Mirage was too dignified to yelp, which was fine because it would have sounded really weird inside Cliffjumper’s mouth. “Mmmph!” sounded strange enough, and Cliffjumper wasn’t even sure what the words had been before he’d lapped them out of the noblemech’s mouth. He thrust his tongue nearly to the fuel intake to catch them syllable by syllable as they left the vocalizer. They were half-sobbed on the cresting wave of emotion pouring out of Mirage, “Mm sree ffmmprr sree sree sree. Mm ss sree ffmmprr.”

He didn’t stop kissing the blue Autobot until the muffled words finally halted. One last nip to a trembling lower lip, a lick to the upper one, and Cliffjumper raised his head to look right into wide optics. “Good,” he repeated, nose-to-nose with the noblemech. “You won’t do it again.”

Mirage’s head turned, too raw to take that kind of scrutiny directly. He slumped against the seated Minibot and nodded almost helplessly as he said the simple words. “I won’t do it again. I swear I won’t.”

“Good. Then I forgive you.” His head snapped back around again, mouth agape, and a finger covered his lips before a denial emerged. “ **If**.” Mirage’s circuits sputtered electromagnetic energy like he’d been running without maintenance for months. Tonight’s emotional rollercoaster ride wasn’t doing either of them any good, but the noblemech was getting whiplash. Cliffjumper gave him a severe look. This wasn’t any easier for him, either, truth be told, but it was painfully clear that Mirage was deferring to his judgment right now. “ **If** you tell me **why** , Mirage.”

And there went the conflict again. Dark emotions swamped the noblemech’s EM field, trying to force a confession out. Cliffjumper waited impatiently, tamping down his own emotions. Mirage was willing to abase himself entirely for his wrongdoings, but he froze up when told he had to explain why. That seemed so backward it was alien. Cliffjumper’s first reaction when accused of something was to try and justify himself. What kind of place had the Towers been? 

“I…”

 _Anger_ had begun to re-emerge despite Cliffjumper’s best efforts. He wasn’t the best mech for waiting on results, and…yeah, he was still angry. He had reason to be mad, really. He was trying not to be because this was hardly the time to try and prod Mirage into a loud row. That’s really what he needed to get the rage out, but it wouldn’t work in this case. Which sucked, but emotions weren’t exactly logical. 

Mirage could feel the stinging burn coating red armor again, and he burrowed into the Minibot’s arms. “I…wanted you.” The words hurt to say. SpecOps had trained an already independent mech into hating dependency, and wanting something this way turned _hate_ back on him. But under the _hate_ glowed that unplaceable _need_. He wanted Cliffjumper more than he hated himself for that desire. “For myself, and only for myself.” 

Cliffjumper digested that. Alright, well, that sort of made sense. In a really warped way. Mirage had been constantly trying to drive Cliffjumper away from the other Autobots. Had this all really been just jealousy spinning out of control?

“And. I.”

He gave the blue helm wedged against his chest a wary look. There was more to it?

“I wanted. You.” The noblemech shifted, discomfort pulsing and writhing a complicated dance around _shame_ , and _need need need_ warmed his whole field. “To stop me. Make me stop. Shut me up.” 

“…oh.” 

That _need_ suddenly clicked a lot of things into context. And oh, come _on._ So that’s how it was, huh? Perceptor and Wheeljack had called it, after all. Twelve days of wondering what the frag Mirage wanted out of their relationship, and it turned out to definitely not be equality. The noblemech wanted a collar and leash, it sounded like. He wanted a master, not an equal. That was something Cliffjumper could easily provide, but it would have _certainly fragging helped_ to have known he was supposed to nip Mirage’s snide comments in the bud before things careened out of control.

“We’re gonna have a long, long talk about this stuff,” Cliffjumper promised, unamused. This situation had gone well beyond ridiculous. Fine. If the mech wouldn’t communicate openly on his own, he’d just opened the door to Cliffjumper _making_ him talk. “We’ve got a date after this shift is over.”

That evidently hadn’t been the response Mirage had expected. The helm tilted, and curious, hopeful optics peered up at him. “We do? I mean, yes, whatever you want, but -- “

“You, me, and the car lift in the medbay.”

So that’s what a deer in headlights looked like. Good to know. Cliffjumper had kind of wondered what the other Autobots were talking about.

His hands tightened possessively, because he wasn’t letting go. Not anymore. It’d been twelve days of uncertainty, and he wasn’t letting the spy disappear again. The mech wanted to be dominated? Then Cliffjumper was going to start treating him like property, and he wasn’t going to let his property walk away again. 

He sighed hot air out his vents, frustrated beyond words. “In the meantime, what the slag am I gonna do with you?” He had a joor left on his shift, and now way was the noblemech weaseling out of their ‘date’ by leaving the bridge. He tightened his grip and brooded in the direction of the security monitors. Blaster and Red Alert continued to patrol. Thank Primus for competent teammates, because he was doing the shift no good with Mirage cuddled to his chest like this. 

The noblemech stopped staring eventually and just pressed his helm to Cliffjumper’s chest. It felt…good. It’d been a long twelve days.

Might as well start that talking thing to pass the time. “You promised you’d talk to me about this before it got to prison cells and handcuffs again,” he chided the noblemech.

“Yes,” mumbled shamed and…heh, excited against red plating. Smelt him, it was the return of the libido. “I apolo -- I’m sorry. But you, ah,” Mirage’s voice turned peculiarly sly, “you did mention what you might do to me if I didn’t speak.”

Cliffjumper frowned, thinking back to the Night of the Couch. He had? What’d he say? 

He looked down, surprised, as Mirage suddenly vanished. From sight only, because the noblemech remained pressed against him. Except that the invisible mech was standing, stepping over the seated Minibot to stand next to him instead of kneeling half-in the seatwell, and what the frag? What the _frag_ was Mirage doing, leaning over him like…that…

Careful and quiet, the spy laid himself over the smaller Autobot’s lap. Mirage was larger and heavier, but his weight balanced comfortably instead of smushing the smaller Autobot. He wriggled slightly, settling himself and propping his hands and feet against the floor. _Anticipation_ ran thrills over their meshed fields, and Cliffjumper slowly lowered his hands until they encountered one upraised aft, ready and waiting for punishment. 

Cliffjumper smirked. Well, that did take care of the question of what to do for the rest of the shift.

**[ * * * * * ]**


	4. Pt. 4: An Eventful Nap

**Title:** An Accidental Love Story  
 **Warnings:** Illness, molestation, consent issue?, being too tired to put up with anyone’s crap.  
 **Rating:** PG?  
 **Continuity:** G1, _“A Taste for Security”_ spin-off  
 **Characters:** Cliffjumper, Mirage, Jazz  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors (or scenery), nor does it make a profit from the play. Artist and author did not actually try to kill each other.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):**   
http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=6996873#t6996873  
(Quick summary: Some Autobot (A) has a kink for sexing up his partner while said partner (B) is sleeping/out of it. They get B unconscious somehow and A has some fun. And then somebody walks in on them and assumes the worst. B can't or doesn't wake up to back up A's case, and everything sort of goes to hell.)

http://tfanonkink.livejournal.com/7561.html?thread=7148169#t7148169  
(Late at night, maybe after a party or an angsty bing on high grade, some mech fell asleep in the empty rec room. Their secret admirer, maybe back from late patrol or unable to sleep or something, finds them. Not one to let such a glorious opportunity pass, he decides to have some fun with his sleeping crush.)

**[ * * * * * ]**

**Part Four: An Eventful Nap**   
(In which Cliffjumper doesn’t even care what’s going on.)  
 _’Oblivion is just easier to deal with.’_

**[ * * * * * ]**

 

It hadn’t been a good day for Cliffjumper.

The good news was that the Autobots had given as good as they’d gotten. Better, in fact. Mixmaster’s collaborative effort with Shockwave had backlashed in a big way once Blaster managed to infect Soundwave. While Megatron’s focus had been on taking out Optimus Prime with the virulent mash-up of virus program and chemical compound, Blaster had aimed for a larger target.

Optimus accidentally infected about a third of the Autobots via innocent contact after the battle. Soundwave, on the other hand, spied on every Decepticon on Earth via small touches of telepathy at any given opportunity, and physical contact plus transmission had given the contagion a perfect conduit to infect through. Megatron had rallied the troops together in preparation for attacking the weakened Autobots, and that had been the end of it. Where the Autobots had locked down the _Ark_ in order to concentrate on isolating and curing their infected mechs, the Decepticons hadn’t been prepared at all for a mass infection via Communication Officer, and their ranks weren’t cut out for calm reactions to collapse. Organized care been pushed aside in favor of panic. 

When last seen, Starscream had been the most mobile of the Decepticon Elite. That hadn’t been saying much, but the Air Commander had managed to boot Jazz off the _Victory_ because the saboteur had been laughing too hard to get away when the weakly -- if angrily -- screeching flyer shoved him into the launching tower and sealed the door behind him.

So that was the good news. A third of the Autobots were out of commission and busy being miserable, but at least the Decepticons were worse off. They’d think twice before manufacturing a contagion again.

The bad news was what the nasty thing _did_.

Depending on how much of the chemical compound the virus convinced a mech’s own body to manufacture, the damage was anywhere from glitching internal systems to liquefied tubing. Ratchet had discovered the infection running rampant through Optimus’ body, notified Red Alert of his diagnosis, and put the medbay on high alert before passing out from his fuel pump’s primary fuel lines melting. First Aid and Hoist had immediately taken over. They’d saved both Prime and Ratchet, but the spread of the infection hadn’t been pretty. The medbay was a mess of gooey internal parts left on the floor in the rush to save lives, and there were enough mechs in intensive care that Cliffjumper had been able to escape with minimum fuss. 

Well, more like blearily glaring Hoist into admitting that there was no real reason for him to stay on an uncomfortable medbay berth when self-repair could handle any future short-circuits. The antidote had been administered, and everyone was inoculated against further infection. It was just a matter of dealing with the aftermath. Escape via logic and an overly crowded medbay wasn’t high drama, but hey. Whatever worked.

The question was what to do now that he was out. Tired and rather pained, the Minibot used the wall to prop himself up as he stumbled down the corridor. Going back to his room was out of the question because Red Alert had everything prepped for decontamination as soon as Wheeljack finished assisting in surgery. That meant bunking with someone, preferably someone with a nicer berth than the circuit-slabs the medbay used. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and tiredly dimmed his optics, trying to think. 

Mirage? Special Operations was running most of the Autobot army at the moment, since both Prowl and Ironhide had been taken out in the secondary wave of infection from close contact with Prime. No on Mirage, therefore, because Cliffjumper’s auxiliary powerplant wasn’t generating enough charge to power his communication array. It was barely keeping him on his feet at the moment. Wherever Mirage was, it probably wasn’t his quarters, and Cliffjumper wasn’t going to be able to trek all the way to that end of the ship and keep going if the door was locked. Gears, maybe? That was close to here…no, wait, he wanted to rest. Gears could manage sympathy enough to let him collapse on his berth, but mere sympathy wouldn’t be enough to shut the nonstop complaining up. No on Gears, too.

Cliffjumper raised his head and was distantly surprised to find that he had to reboot his optics to bring them back online. According to the readout sluggishly giving him system updates, he’d dozed off, slipping into powersave mode right here standing in the hall. He reset his optics a couple times and tried to recall who bunked near this corridor. Where was he, anyway?

It took his depleted, slow processor a few minutes to connect the door he was absently staring at with a location. 

Or he could crash in the common room. That was always an option. It wasn’t sealed for decontamination, and since the remaining two-thirds of the Autobots were pulling extra duty shifts to cover for the laid up mechs, there wouldn’t be a lot of traffic beyond maybe fetching rations from the energon dispenser. Most mechs were normally considerate about volume if they saw someone passed out on the couch. Right now, they’d probably pass the word to keep it quiet if they saw one of the contagion victims trying to rest.

That’d be perfect. Cliffjumper staggered drunkenly over to the door and all but fell through. Utter exhaustion had his body drugged with weariness more pervasive than any mere overcharge. He’d binged on high-grade before and had felt more in control of his limbs then than he did right now. His underpowered vocalizer made a distressed clicking sound. Pop-up warnings appeared on his heads-up display informing him that his auxiliary powerplant would sincerely like him to stop moving for a while. It would really, truly like to start dedicating all of its output to his self-repair very soon, please and thank you, so it politely bludgeoned him over the head with warnings telling him to sit the slag down before it took his knees out from under him. 

“Yeah, okay,” he thought he mumbled. His audios were fuzzing out on him, however, and he wasn’t too sure that his vocalizer had engaged at all. He chose not to worry about it. Getting to the couch became the focus of his entire world.

Anyone watching would likely have been amused and concerned by his wobbling route couch-ward. The Minibot seemingly tacked against a nonexistent wind in order to reach his goal. He kept losing his balance, and it was difficult to keep track of where exactly the couch was located. “Couch,” he reminded himself. “Couch very important.”

Wait. “Energon.” Had he said that aloud? The metal of his face felt hot and cold in turn as his auxiliary powerplant tried to keep up with temperature control, and he couldn’t tell if the tick in his left optic was from trying to speak or from overtaxed tensile cables. 

His fans kept spinning up and winding down, and his head whirled dizzily. It was distracting him from important things. Things that involved him moving, not sinking to the floor and resting like his unsteady knees were urging him. Energy was important. He needed energon. 

“Hungry. Empty,” he told his knees. “We need energon.” 

His knees weren’t convinced. He made his legs stay straight underneath him anyway. 

His tanks hammered him with pings, stridently warning him that self-repair was going to drain him in no time flat. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” 

Move, legs. He’d get to the couch eventually for some rest, but right now he had to move -- where was he moving? Over there. That way. Go, Cliffjumper, go.

Detoooooooour. A long, exhausting detour that left him leaning against the wall beside the dispenser wheezing as a cube filled. Charge slowly gathered inside him to power his walk onward toward the couch. How had half a room become the road to Mordor? One did not simply _walk_ to the couch. 

A big gulp from the first cube turned into an embarrassing dribble down his chin as crawling processors collectively forgot how swallowing worked. Cliffjumper stood there staring without seeing the wall, the energon sparkling warmly over his tongue and leaking from the corners of his mouth. He should know how to do this; really, he knew he should. The back of his throat flexed uncertainly for a few minutes. It was funny, in a sleepy way, and he idly swished the liquid energy from side to side. 

The energon seeped down his throat until it dripped onto his main intake, triggering it. He swallowed and gasped, almost startled by the sudden motion, and the cube hanging from his hand sloshed as he nearly let go of it. He fumbled for a grip and sternly yanked his arms back into cooperating in real time with his processors, which weren’t doing so well with the timely responses either. Slag. Right, drink the energon, go slump into powersave mode on the couch. Those were the goals. Surely he could manage that.

And he did, although it took him longer than he thought when he checked the time. It took real effort to keep raising the cube up to his mouth. Balancing the edge on his chin and bracing his elbow on the wall worked better, but the cube was empty for a couple minutes before he realized that’s why swallowing wasn’t working this time. He refilled it and took an extra just in case. Trying not to spill them while shuffling across the room was exciting in a blurry, slow way.

Sinking down onto the couch felt like -- like --

Like something wonderful and blissful, release on a mental level as his processors sank into a shallow level of statis just above recharge. Trembling cables throughout his body relaxed as he toppled over. The whole world felt plush, giving around him until he thought he should have felt smothered but only felt relieved. Regular noise sounded inordinately loud in the silence of his audio system’s malfunctioning priority list, but it was a strange comfort. The pull and puff of his ventilation system became a steady roar. The plastic-Kevlar tarpaulin weave of the couch material crinkled quietly as he burrowed into it. He nudged his helm against it just to hear that sound again. His helm’s sensor horns felt overly sensitive as they dented the couch cushion, and the slide of his metal rasped in his audios under the contradictive quiet-loud crackle of the couch giving way to him. 

The material against his shoulder and chest felt inexplicably smooth. He shifted just to feel how his plating glided over it. Dragging his arms up took real effort, but the backs of his hands pressed into the cushion and bent his wrists down until the joints stretched against the tensile cables pleasantly. Rearranging his arms up around his head slid the smooth, silken shiver over forearms and the sides of his hands, and when the motion twisted his hips, his thighs pressed together in a way he hadn’t expected. He should have. It was nothing new, but everything felt born anew right now. The world was formless, and every breath he took created something out of nothing. The inside of his thighs scraped gently, and the way the sides of his knees brushed sent prickles across his barely-powered sensor network. The soles of his feet set heavily on the floor, feeling cemented into it as if he’d never noticed how his weight pushed him downward before. There was a pressure upward that it took him a moment to realize was actually gravity being interpreted backward by his heels.

The relief from the physical effort of walking tripped an uncoiling tension up his chest like pleasure. His lips felt stuck together, but Cliffjumper felt so _good_ that he peeled his mouth open as he hauled his feet up to lay on the couch. Parting his lips unglued his tongue from the chemical sensors on the roof of his mouth, and the resultant drag of air sounded like a muffled bellow from a far-away battle. He let it sigh back out, and his lips twitched a smile as the sound rushed through him. Everything was quiet, yet, conversely, everything was tremendously loud. The couch crinkled in a forest fire’s cacophony. His fans billowed and blew like a windstorm. Breathing sounded like he was moaning aloud. 

A pounding, rhythmic thump lulling his processors into a stupor. It pulsed in the tips of his fingers and around the rims of his hubcaps. He counted the thudding beats that felt like they should be rocking his arms on the couch before his optics. He didn’t understand how something that sounded so powerful, that he could _feel_ in the cavernous silence surrounding him, wasn’t moving his arms. It wasn’t until his optics dimmed and he started to doze off that he realized it was only his fuel pump. Oh…

The black shadows on the edges of his vision swooped in to cover him in swaddling, drifting clouds of darkness. He sighed and turned his head, pressing his cheek to the cushion.

And then he was gone. 

The haze was slow to recede. It never cleared completely. The pixels acquired saturation one at a time in a slow bleed of gray that only gradually became color. The colors dripped away just as slowly, and the cycle went around and around.

He wasn’t in recharge. His auxiliary powerplant couldn’t generate enough to keep him more than functional, and his processors were totally occupied with his self-repair system. There wasn’t enough space left to run recharge defragment protocols Deep repair statis wouldn’t let his processors run active, either, so powersave kept his mind just barely online. Awareness came and went, and usually he didn’t notice one or the other until it left.

Air droned, rushing in and out of his body. His fuel pump thumped. Deep in his chassis, his spark glittered and pulsed in tiny shimmers that were only noticeable in times like now, when he was conscious of every miniscule turning gear and hydraulic line gradually easing. He dozed in half-awake, languid relaxation. The couch crinkled slightly as he summoned enough control over his body to rub his cheek against the cushion.

Systems ebbed, fluxing on their very lowest settings, on the edge of that last tick down into statis. His plating had melted into the couch. He was a puddle of Cliffjumper. The cushions cradled him, supporting his limbs in positions that probably wouldn’t be exceptionally comfortable any other time but were absolutely perfect right now. He couldn’t move. He didn’t want to move. 

There were fingers walking up his back. _Curiosity_ and _concern_ left fingerprints up his trunk and traced along the transformation hinges. “Are you in there somewhere?” murmured from above his head, vaguely in the direction of the arm of the couch beyond his forearms. 

The voice was no louder than a whisp of sound, but it rumbled like thunder amidst the rainstorm hiss of enhanced background noise. The whirr and hiss of another mech’s systems was loud, but distant. So distant. Far away and dreamlike.

Cliffjumper exhaled an extra-long ventilation, and the puddle that was him rippled warm rings of _contentment_ and _comfortable_ across his surface. Self-repair had taken care of the pain. Now there was only the tiredness of inadequate charge leaving him exhausted by existing. Existing was tiresome but gloriously nice at the same time. Being a puddle of limbs made him inexpressibly happy right now. 

No war. No viruses. No problems. Just blissfully letting his systems run in a machine state of powersave that brought him to the level of primitive metal. Metal didn’t worry. Metal didn’t have a care in the world.

It took him awhile to think about that. By the time he pushed it into his circuitry to percolate slowly outward in slow bloom of satisfied electromagnetic energy, the fingers had petted down his upper arms to rest on his elbows. _Amusement_ pressed against his EM field. Mirage apparently found his limp, sprawling ease entertaining.

 _Amusement_ patted his arms, and a hot tide of _interest_. A bright spangle of charge flicked against him; the energy field equivalent of a naughty, waggled brow ridge. Because frag if Mirage, of all mechs, would lower himself to a crooked grin and frank question about if he was interested in playing.

Spies, Cliffjumper thought fuzzily, were kind of simple sometimes. At least, Mirage was. He didn’t think so normally, but right now he couldn’t dredge up enough coherency to contemplate anything complicated. Spies liked to watch without being seen. Mirage sometimes liked to watch him, stalking him through the _Ark_ on stealthy feet and ghosting around him to press kisses of energy to the backs of his hands, the outside of his tires, between his sensor horns. Cliffjumper had adjusted to being molested by thin air on occasion. It was always tentative, small acts of blowing wind that spoke of aborted touches and near misses. There were unseen optics on him, and hands reaching out for him. Spies _watched_. They didn’t _touch_

Mirage liked to be hunted down and unveiled. He liked to be exposed to everyone. He loved to surrender the hard-won independence of a special operative to Cliffjumper’s control. Nothing ran him hotter than being seized and stripped of his dignified behavior until he moaned and pleaded in public. 

But he was a spy, and spies liked to watch. There was the electric excitement of having his function and his upbringing tossed over Cliffjumper’s shoulder and carted off for grungy, low-class rutting, and Primus knew Mirage adored the Minibot for treating him to that guilty pleasure -- but he _wanted_ his function, too.

He wanted to see Cliffjumper respond. Wanted to stay invisible. Wanted to be the ghost nobody could catch, and draw the pleasure out of the red Minibot’s body in long strands wrapped around aristocratic fingers. He wanted to watch, but he wanted more than that.

Cliffjumper was fairly good at catering to Mirage’s wishes, but prying them out of the noblemech’s doggedly shut mouth was a trial. He’d tried ignoring the invisible stalking. He’d tried playing along with it. He’d tried outright asking about it. There’d been no answers offered, although trying to get them had been fun.

Now Mirage was all kinds of excited because Cliffjumper was nearly in recharge under his hands. Hands that could touch without being seen, and couldn’t be _reacted_ to, so the spy was free to indulge his whim to touch as much as he wanted. He was free to touch what he watched so avidly every day.

The hyperactive sizzle of _lust_ and yearning _need_ zapped over the snoozing Minibot, who onlined an optic with great effort. It was always the forbidden stuff that jumpstarted the noblemech’s engine. Hmmph. Not that it’d been forbidden if they’d actually _talked_ about it, but Mirage and his communication issues could fill an entire book with blank pages. He wondered in muzzy interest just how many times his door had been hacked, if it was touching him while he slept that evidently turned the racecar’s motor. It sort of explained why he sometimes woke up in such a good mood, and why Mirage always seemed to be conveniently nearby ready for some Viking-style fragging against the nearest wall.

“Oh, come **on** ,” Cliffjumper said, or thought he said, and a flutter of halfway exasperated _affection_ swelled and washed over his plating like a wave across the Cliffjumper puddle. They were going to have a long talk once the virus flushed out of his body and self-repair got him back on his feet. 

“Just relax,” crooned quietly down at him, and careful, attentive fingers started investigating his armor. _Excitement_ skittered under a spy’s silence.

“You could’ve just asked,” he mumbled, or maybe that was his engine gurgling. He curled into the couch, burying his nose in the cushion. That was the extent of his ability to think about Mirage’s newest kink at the moment. Being watched by the noblemech had always been fine by him. Being touched like this felt okay as well. Unexpected, but he didn’t mind. He liked Mirage. He liked being touched by Mirage. 

Stupid nobles. Always making interfacing more of an issue than it was. He’d start leaving his door unlocked once they had a talk about it. Or change the lock combination every night, if the noblemech wanted a challenge. Heh. It could turn into a nice game of spy versus fighter: Is Cliffjumper Asleep or Ready To Pounce?

The couch crinkled. Air rushed and roared, and the world lurched as his perfect comfort was disturbed slightly. His optics lit dimly, but it took him some time to focus on what was in front of his face. The blue color was pretty. It took him five minutes or so to realize it was actually Mirage’s lower leg. He admired it as hands coated in _fascination_ and something warmer, more tender, continued stroking in broad, petting motions over his shoulders, down his back, and under the armor plating. He stretched and sighed, letting his armor flex out from his struts and the tensile cables go lax, opening the gaps for those exploring fingers.

His main powerplant bleated error warnings, still. The hum of incrementally rising charge caused by the hands faltered and leveled off, reaching a plateau as his auxiliary powerplant reached maximum output. Cliffjumper clicked his vocalizer and smiled. It made his face feel strange where the plating had gone slack as he rested. 

Pleasure followed the hands now running down the inside of his legs. His sensor network picked it up, purred with it, and let it settle into his struts. The charge glowed under his plating and spread in a dense cloud over his circuitry, but it was as hazy as his CPU. It didn’t build. It just kneaded down his conduits in a plush caress mirroring what Mirage was doing to his feet. 

Cliffjumper breathed in sensation as rich as quality high-grade, and the darkness blanketed him again.

He woke to feedback and static.

The shock of it jolted his systems in a lightning strike of _surprise_ , but Mirage’s acidic words sounded harsher than the chattering white noise hashing in his audios. _Offense_ and the smallest tinge of _fear_ made him reluctantly pull himself out of the puddle of self he’d been wallowing in. He didn’t want to. It’d felt good just existing, but Mirage’s EM field was hardening, and he didn’t like that. The defensive, offended prickle closing it off from him had Cliffjumper reacting before he knew why.

“What’s going on?” came out a thin whine of strained noise that only made him more aware of the shrieking feedback.

His fingers twitched as his audios abruptly reset. The feedback cleared into -- yelling? No, he was still having volume issues. They likely thought they were keeping their voices down out of consideration of him.

“You do **not** know what you are speaking of.”

“What’s to know? You’ve got your hands up his armor, and like the Pit is he in any shape to ‘face! What’s next, waiting until Ratchet’s got him knocked out for repairs and then feeling him up during surgery? Clanging him while he’s bleeding out in a ‘Con cell wasn’t good enough for you -- now you’ve gotta do it while he’s **unconscious**? Frag, mech, I know everybody’s got their thing, but this’s taking it too far!”

The tinge of _fear_ became frigid, icy _anger_ , but the slick of fear thrilled along under it. Cliffjumper curled his fingers and tried to remember if he’d onlined his optics yet. He couldn’t tell.

“You go too far, Jazz,” Mirage said, but his voice was blandly calm. A tremble of _uncertainty_ swirled on the fringe of Cliffjumper’s EM field, a testing touch as if the noblemech were suddenly doubting. 

Doubting what? Annoyed by the lack of familiar teasing touches and the cold absence of hot _lust_ he’d been gradually syncing up with, the red Minibot reached out as hard as he could. Which wasn’t much considering the state of his powerplant, admittedly. His circuitry scarcely had enough charge to keep him conscious; doing more than that drained him further. His EM field managed a single pulse off his plating, despite that. A weak buffet of _want_ snipped at the hesitant borders of Mirage’s field, like a sleepy cyberkitten’s growl when the petting stopped.

Exhaustion tempted him. He could drift away and let the loud, whispered argument become background noise again. The black, warm haze of powersave beckoned.

Instead, Cliffjumper’s chin jutted as he gathered his willpower and told his hand to move. He could give in to weariness in a bit. “Come here,” he said, or not. Probably not. But his arm did slide across the cushion in a deafening rustle nobody else even noticed under the angry words being softly spat back and forth. His hand crawled over fabric, groping for whom he was almost sure was sitting in that direction. Over there. Somewhere.

Metal. Yes, metal. Triumph!

Metal that smacked the palm of his hand with zapping _shock_ and jumped away as Mirage practically fell off the couch. Not so triumphant. Frag. Get back here. Cliffjumper didn’t have the energy to spare for romping around the common room right now.

“Nnngh,” he complained. That sounded coherent enough to him, but the metal he was reaching for didn’t return immediately to his grip, so maybe not. He grasped after open air. “Snrrglefrrgit.”

“...what’d he say?”

“You are going to have to repeat that,” a certain snooty noblemech said stiffly, and Cliffjumper absently wondered if there was anything nearby he could throw at Jazz’s head. Mirage was eight flavors of offended dignity, and he was really not up to dealing with Mirage in a furious huff.

His arm had fallen off the couch when he lost his grip. It made his whole upper body jerk and ache, but he lifted it up and waved the hand. The pleasant song of low charge that’d had him humming with circuit-level pleasure even while in light statis was dropping. He didn’t like that. It made him feel cold. His auxiliary powerplant _really_ didn’t like that. He flapped the hand more urgently.

He couldn’t focus his optics, but a blue and white blur knelt between him and the colorful smear that was the rest of the room. His hand was captured in a larger hand with long, graceful fingers. “Cliffjumper…“

“Mech, let him go. We gotta have a talk, and he’s got his self-repair runnin’ so high I can hear the nanites from here. Let’s take a walk outsi -- uh. Oh.”

“Yes,” Mirage said dryly. “Oh.”

It was either let the Minibot drag himself off the couch, or allow the insistent pull to reel the noblemech in. Mirage wisely chose to let Cliffjumper pull him down onto the couch. The smaller Autobot rested a minute, just breathing, but his steel grip on those long fingers didn’t ease for a second. There was a definite sense of claiming to the hold, despite the fact that the little red mech was laying on the couch and more out of it than fully aware of his surroundings. 

Cliffjumper tugged again. Mirage went with it. The narrow blue slit on the outermost edge of Cliffjumper’s bleary vision continued to study them both. Jazz kept his mouth shut, which mean Cliffjumper’s idle plans for throwing things at his head subsided into better plans. Namely, getting Mirage exactly where he wanted him. 

It took some doing. The position they ended up in wasn’t really snuggling. It was more like osmosis. Absorption of electromagnetic energy via sheer surface area contact. Mirage laid back more and more as the determined Minibot oozed into his lap, then inched up his chest until he could nestle his helm under the noblemech’s chin. A nose reached up far enough to nudge Mirage’s helm vents, gasped pants gusting out of the tired little Autobot’s mouth to be sucked into Mirage’s systems in a _desire_ -soaked breath of air and electromagnetic energy. Weary _want-need_ met a quivery, relieved field that yielded to the firm -- if slightly addled -- reassurance of a dominant far too tired to put up with anyone’s scrap today.

Mirage finally surrendered and swung his legs up onto the couch to lay under him. Cliffjumper sighed deeply and buried his nose in the noblemech’s neck cabling.

“Better?”

It wasn’t clear who Mirage was talking to. The word came out haughtily, however, and that just wouldn’t do. Cliffjumper’s engine gave a sickly turn-over but failed to start, and the Minibot wriggled. Did he have to do everything?

If Jazz said anything in return, Cliffjumper didn’t hear him, and he wasn’t about to answer verbally. His mouth seemed to have been taken over by a cotton-based lifeform of some kind. It was breeding. Or perhaps dead. Either way, his tongue felt mired to the roof of his mouth again, and he was becoming slowly hypnotized by the sound of his fuel pump whenever he paused to connect two thoughts together. His processors were cycling him down toward the dark comfort of statis again.

He stubbornly fought it off and wriggled about some more. His knees slipped apart and settled on either side of Mirage’s slim hips. It took a few weak kicks, but he managed to hook the tops of his feet over those long white thighs, too. Mirage wouldn’t be moving his lower half anytime soon, unless he dislodged the Minibot now tangled up in his legs. 

Cliffjumper radiated _smug_ down at the noblemech, lost focus, and dozed off.

Fine fingers tweaking his sensor horns brought his optics blinking online again half an hour later. Hadn’t he been doing something? 

He shifted and lifted his cheek off the red cross seemingly made for his head to rest on. The foreign beat of a higher-performance fuel pump sounded positively thunderous from this close. Under it ran the indescribable noise of a spark he knew very well indeed. Oh, right. Yes, he’d been doing Mirage.

When he got his head around to look in the right direction, he saw the spy’s face very close to his own. “Hello again. I was wondering if you would wake up anytime soon. How are you feeling?”

Cliffjumper frowned. Mirage’s voice had lost its knifelike edge, but the words plus the warm flow of _amusement_ and _affection_ rippling over him like water over a rock was overwhelming. Words were...too much right now. He couldn’t process both at once. The energy touching him all over was too intense, and there was little processor power to spare on language centers.

“That **is** an interesting look you’re giving me.” Mirage’s lips gave the tiniest quirk, a full-blown smile in noblemech terms. “Not ready to get up, I take it. Hoist tells me you need to fuel regularly. What are your tank levels at?”

He didn’t understand. He mulishly refused to try, either. The only solution was to shut Mirage up. Where had he left his hands? His limbs were numb with inadequate power. 

A slender hand helped prop his chin up, although he hadn’t been aware he’d been nodding off until Mirage caught him. He blinked hazily. The corner of the cube pressed to his lower lip got another blink. 

Long fingers delicately balanced the cube against his mouth and tilted it up a fraction at a time until the energon was barely held back by surface tension. “Drink,” Mirage coaxed. “Drink for me.” 

The pink liquid slowly melded to the crease where cube met lip, and in a second the surface broke. Energon flooded in a quick rivulet to fill the indent, then the crack between Cliffjumper’s lips. The Minibot’s mouth opened instinctively as energon trickled down the sides of his chin, and his tongue flicked out. Startled awake, if not aware, Cliffjumper accepted the next mouthful tipped between his open lips. And the next. And the one after that, until the cube was empty. The hand holding his chin caught the escaped trickles and wiped them up with thumb and forefinger respectively.

Mirage lowered the red mech’s chin back down to rest on his chest and lifted his stained hand to lick the energon off himself. It looked like something to do.

So Cliffjumper did it.

The fuel pump beating under the Minibot’s cheek sped up. Smiling lazily, breathing slow and feeling the air going in and out with an almost sensual appreciation, Cliffjumper entwined his hand with Mirage’s and poked his tongue out. It barely peeked from between his lips, but that was enough. He moved his head instead of the hand he pulled close, and his tongue ran over the beautifully crafted fingertips no other mech in the _Ark_ had. He’d recognize these fingers anywhere. 

The spark under him pulsed, straining upward toward his own. Cliffjumper breathed gently out and nuzzled the larger hand folded around his own, thumbs holding down the tips. His fingers opened and closed between Mirage’s. When he bent his wrist, it pressed the noblemech’s knuckles to his lips. 

Warm _desire_ became a swamping tide of emotions Cliffjumper couldn’t separate. They were hot and yearning, dancing across his plating in electric zings he just didn’t have the power to echo. He sighed against Mirage’s hand and moved his mouth in words his vocalizer wouldn’t engage to speak aloud. But it was okay. He was sure the blue Autobot understood him all the same.

When he was finished not-talking, his lips had opened enough that he could set his teeth on those knuckles. Only the middle two, but that was fine. He bit, not trying to dent, not to cause pain -- but enough to leave a mark.

The burring fans trapped under him stuttered. He hummed happily in response.

Things were going slushy around the edges again. Yawning was a human habit, but a nice one. The stretch of facial plating and the tensile cables underneath relaxed tensions most mechs didn’t even know they carried until the yawn ended. Cliffjumper yawned and ducked his head to rub his cheek against the hand that had somehow ended up tucked under his chin. Had he dozed off?

He had. Mirage was still running hot, and Cliffjumper’s body absorbed that heat and the excess charge gratefully. It was that much less energy his overworked auxiliary powerplant had to put out. It also tasted strongly of the noblemech’s helpless, jealously guarded vulnerability, and Cliffjumper yawned again in order to suck in a huge gulp of that rare vintage. He held it in and let it fill his systems until the heat burned pleasantly.

When he stirred sleepily to look up at him, Mirage pulled the Minibot’s hand up to his mouth to press a tender kiss to the palm. “Cliffjumper, I -- mmm?”

Cliffjumper grunted irritably and kept his hand where it was. Mirage’s hands stroked down his arms to rest on his shoulders, but he sort of twitched a disagreeable shimmy to shrug them off. He didn’t want touching. He wanted -- he _wanted_ \-- no words. No hands on him. Just the sleepy silence and the hot, drenching flood of Mirage’s body losing control minute by minute until he’d writhe even as Cliffjumper kept him still. 

Eventually, self-repair would kick his main powerplant back online, and Cliffjumper would be able to deal with the noblemech’s words and hands. Just not right now.

Mirage was kissing the hand over his mouth. Cliffjumper’s vents flipped opened and closed as he jolted back awake out of that hazy powersave doze he kept dropping into, and the kisses held the shape of a smile against his palm. The Minibot tapped one finger against those lips, and they obediently stayed closed when Cliffjumper withdrew his hands. They curved without forming an actual smile, and the expression of tolerance on the spy’s face belied the _interest_ beating through the his body in time with his fuel pump. 

Cliffjumper trailed his fingers down over the noblemech’s chin and down the elegant neck, not because he wanted to arouse the mech further but because he was too weary to lift his arm. The thrumming arousal was merely a side benefit. He rested his chin on the top edge of Mirage’s chest plate and sent his hands searching for Mirage’s own hands. 

When he found them, he insistently pushed them upward along the couch cushions. The material crinkled under them. It’d be difficult to pin anyone down on cushy fabric like this, but the point wasn’t to actually restrain the taller Autobot. If Mirage really wanted to get away, it’d be as simple as sitting up straight. Cliffjumper would probably flop over and go back into powersave mode. 

He didn’t resist, however. He let the red Minibot slide his hands up above his head, fingers entwined together. Cliffjumper sighed against him. The knees clamped around his hips tightened for a second before relaxing again. A thumb massaged briefly into the center of one finely crafted hand, remnants of the nobility that itched to touch a utilitarian red armor. Itched to, but couldn’t. Not without disobeying the implicit order holding him down. 

Thoroughly trapped, Mirage chewed on his lower lip and made a soft sound in the back of his throat. It was likely that nobody else in the room could even hear it.

Cliffjumper’s dim optics flashed, and he exhaled quietly against hot armor. All the small noises roared in his audios, quietly crashing over him in a dizzy cascade, and he heard it all. His systems were ebbing into another downturn. Fuzzy darkness closed in around him like a blanket.

Silky, polished metal twisted just slightly under him, and Mirage breathed a whimper.

It hadn’t been a good day for Cliffjumper, but it hadn’t been all that bad.

 

**[* * * * *]**


End file.
